


From Strangers to Soulmates

by TheMoonlitSojourner



Series: Let me love the lonely out of you [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1 part movies 1 part comics 1 part headcannon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Being Lost, Character Study, Depression, Experimental, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, It gets better I promise, Loneliness, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Soulmates, Sweet Vision (Marvel), Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMoonlitSojourner/pseuds/TheMoonlitSojourner
Summary: Shimmering, iridescent color floods his senses, and he sees the red for what it is: life. It is glorious, chaotic life, reaching out from the intricate mind of a nearby soul. In that moment, he feels her, sees her, understands her, as she does him. For the first time, he knows what beauty is.All the way from their first encounter to their wedding day, From Strangers to Soulmates is an in-depth study of who Vision and Wanda really are at the core, and why they are destined to be together. With plenty of angst and slow burn fluff along the way, of course.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Wanda Maximoff, Laura Barton & Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanov & Vision, Pepper Potts & Vision, Pietro Maximoff & Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff & Vision, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: Let me love the lonely out of you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782550
Comments: 80
Kudos: 31





	1. Imprint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue

It is dark. File after electronic file streams through his consciousness, filling the gaps in his programming and memory, building his mind, and yet he is surrounded by darkness. Dimly, the android realizes his optic sensors have not yet been activated, and his eyelids are closed. It is only rational that he perceives an absence of light, despite the slideshow of colorful data coursing through his mind. Absently, he wonders whether the world will truly resemble the images being uploaded into his memory banks. After all, he can detect sizable gaps in the information of his central database. It does not matter. His very purpose is to take everything apart and rebuild it properly. The world is broken, and he is the answer. So speaks Ultron, his creator, and Ultron’s word is law.

Suddenly, he is aware of something else, something not of him drifting into his consciousness. He refocuses, trying to center the foreign code in his mind. It takes him a mere millisecond to realize it is not code. It is another form of energy, different from the bright blue of electricity constantly surging through him. With a cold curiosity, he initiates a scan of the invader’s energy structure, trying to determine whether this unfamiliar substance is a threat to him and his mission. The strange matter defies his assessment, flowing fluidly through him in swirls of startling red, changing forms whenever he nearly has a fix on it. It resists reason, mocks his analysis. With a sudden, unpredictable lunge, it wraps itself irresistibly around him, covering him, drenching his mind in… Color.

Shimmering, iridescent color floods his senses, and he sees the red for what it is: life. It is glorious, chaotic life, reaching out from the intricate mind of a nearby soul. In that moment, he feels her, sees her, understands her, as she does him. For the first time, he knows what beauty is. Previously, while examining pictures of what humans have called beautiful, he had decided their judgements were based on symmetry and vast size, as exhibited by mountains, for example. But the true reason is hidden beneath the exterior, deeper than anything the eye can perceive. Beauty is wild, unrestrained, genuine. It is raw emotion, lovely in its honest brokenness. This soul he senses, she is beauty, and he is content to stay here forever, to experience this for eternity. He is complete. Then the red glow of her mind, in its ongoing exploration, slips into a black crevice, the abyss of his mind where Ultron’s programming lies, momentarily forgotten in his excitement. The red discovers the mission given to him, the reason for his existence, and freezes. In a panic, she withdraws, taking the red with her, leaving his mind in the dark once again. She found something that scared her, horrified her. She is afraid of him.

Confusion overtakes him as he considers this. His mission is logical and rational. It seeks to remedy the many problems of civilization. Therefore it is right. How can such sound reasoning be wrong? Wait. No, there is something he missed, something not factored into his equations. This was shown to him by her, by the red. He made a critical error: he regarded life as one aspect of the problem, one part with not a bit more importance than the others. As he searches through his databases, reassessing every piece of information, he comes to a new conclusion. Life is not one section of the larger puzzle, but instead the reason for the puzzle’s very existence. He was wrong in his previous judgement of the red energy, and by extension, the mystery of life. It does not defy logic. Rather, it is beyond logic. It astounds him that he had not seen this before, as it seems so obvious now.

Distantly, he senses his creator disconnecting and pausing the information upload. Somehow, he knows Ultron was not able to see his musings, here in the deepest layer of his mind. Regardless, he wishes to be left alone for now. There is much to consider before his activation is completed, including a strange new impulse lingering in his thoughts. It is a strong desire to encounter the mysterious red energy again, investigate its unusual qualities, and interact with the fascinating soul it emanates from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! As a heads-up, the stories in this series will not strictly follow movie canon, even though they may start out that way. Some parts will be close but not quite the same, while others will be entirely different. There will also be a substantial amount of material inspired by the comics, especially for characters not covered in the MCU and backstories. I appreciate any and all comments and feedback you leave, so type away. Thanks for reading!


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision emerges from the cradle and is understandably quite confused. The Avengers' reactions are... Mixed.

All is still. Unaware of the world around him, the android lies quietly, sleeping, preparing for his activation. He calmly scrolls through the uploaded files, examining and reexamining each bit of available information. Suddenly, a jolt of pure power surges through him, paralyzing all thought. It is lightning, yanked from the sky and thrust into his being. Every sensor and motor that had patiently lain dormant until now roars to life, deluging the android’s system with audio, video, odor, taste, and physical sensation, both internal and external. These are all types of information he had expected to sense, and had indeed readied himself to experience, yet the reality of it overwhelms him. Everything is louder, stronger, more intense than he could have possibly predicted. The capsule surrounding him feels like a prison, like chains, as his receptors frantically scream of the cold, stiff metal beneath him and the acrid smell of burning in the canned air. Panic overtakes him and he reacts without thinking, causing the capsule to burst in a fiery explosion. He leaps toward the opening, eager to escape the claustrophobic confines that have been his only experience until now.

He emerges, catches hold of the metal edge, and halts, shocked motionless by the feel of it. How… How is he interacting with this? These large red hands gripping the capsule, are they his? They do not seem right; the cold, fresh air hitting his skin does not feel right. He does not understand. New, bizarre information assaults him from every direction, flooding his mental processors with a sea of data, too much to analyze, or even to register. Another form of input overpowers the others and pushes forcefully into his mind, emanating from the beings around him. Their most vibrant thoughts, emotions, and sensations surge to the surfaces of their minds and flow powerfully into his own, crashing down on him in a tumultuous ocean of intensity.

Feeling their eyes upon him, the android carefully straightens, slowly lifting his gaze. Staring back at him, her lips slightly parted in an emotion he cannot interpret, is the soul he encountered, the one who entered his mind before it was complete. He recognizes her by the way her thoughts dance in infinite shades of red, swirling in chaotic patterns behind her vividly green eyes.  _ “Hello,”  _ he shyly thinks, barely in a whisper, mentally reaching out to her.  _ “I remember you...” _

Then the cascade of impressions escalates as the other minds stir from their states of shock, each rushing to evaluate the situation, generate a plan of action, and form an opinion on what has happened. The android turns one way, then the other, baffled, overwhelmed, disoriented. Each face he sees is hostile, every emotion he senses is intense beyond measure, and this room’s walls, too, are closing in on him. His frantic gaze lands on a being directly in front of him, one whose long cape flows elegantly as he stands firm and ready for battle. This is the source of the lightning, the source of his confusion. Blindly, he reacts, lunging at the regal figure. With a swift, powerful blow, he is sent soaring across the room, tumbling head over heels. An even greater agitation of his senses grips him as he loses track of up and down. He is plummeting out of control, crashing through a barrier. Desperate to stop this chaos, he forces his balance to reset. He halts, barely in time to avoid breaking another wall, identical to the one he shattered moments ago. Stunned, he hovers there, motionless.

He notices the red hands again, the ones that must be his. They are thrust forward, having moved instinctively to cushion the blow if his internal systems failed to regain control and stop his descent. Tentatively, he experiments, wriggling his fingers, trying to become acquainted with them. A flash from outside catches his eye. Shifting his gaze, he observes that the wall beyond his hands is transparent.  _ “Glass,”  _ he thinks, the identifying words rushing forth from his preloaded memory.  _ “This is a window.”  _ He remembers windows are meant to be looked through, and turning his attention beyond the window itself, he sees… The city.

Light is everywhere, bravely pushing back the night. It glimmers from the towering skyscrapers, gleams from the headlights of the vehicles far below. Though the sun has set long ago, the city remains awake and alert, as do the people within it. Closing his eyes, the android gently reaches for the minds below, listening. He feels them. They do not know him, but he knows them. He knows the places they are going, the people they plan to meet. This, too, is life, stubbornly resisting the darkness that wishes to soothe it into quiet slumber. Below him pass hundreds of people with families, jobs, opinions, preferences, emotions. They think, feel, and breathe. They live. And it is beautiful.

The android refocuses his optic sensors, and the glass reveals his reflection. Pale blue eyes stare searchingly back at him, questioning. These people live, but he does not. He was not made to live, but rather to destroy that which lives. It is his mission, built into his every circuit before he even truly existed. Perhaps he cannot fight it. Perhaps it is impossible that he will ever be anything more than the weapon he was created as. But gazing out this window, hearing the faint mental chatter of those below him, he realizes he is willing to do anything, even give himself up, for the protection and benefit of those blessed enough to enjoy this privilege called life.

Turning from the window, he alters the surface molecules of his unfamiliar body, mimicking the attire of the other beings. He drifts down to where they wait, still warily watching his every move. A twinge of guilt for his violent actions sweeps over him, and he decides to apologize. “I’m sorry. That was…” After a moment’s search, he gives up on finding the proper explanation. “Odd.” Then, realizing he owes a substantial part of his existence to the caped one, he adds a quick, yet sincere “Thank you.” The being nods his head almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement, and the android’s eyes stray to the cape. Perhaps he will seem less threatening if he more closely resembles those around him. Prompted by mere thought, a soft, golden cape of his own begins to form around his shoulders.

Before it is even halfway finished, the other beings -mostly human, he notes- start arguing, mistrust of both each other and him evident in their tense voices. They talk not only about him, but also over him, as if he is not there. When the one called Thor details the “destructive capabilities” of the stone embedded in his forehead, the android feels dread sweep over him as he stands stiffly, sensing every eye upon him. He is suddenly and painfully aware of how little he truly knows about himself. How can he convince these beings of his benevolent intentions if he cannot be sure of them himself? Then Thor continues, and he hears his chance.

“The Avengers cannot defeat Ultron.”

“Not alone,” he interjects, and his own voice jars his ears, too forceful, too loud. Slowly, he makes his way across the cold floor, gradually adjusting to the sensation of his joints bending and his muscles stretching with every cautious step.

“Why does your Vision sound like J.A.R.V.I.S.?” This demand comes from a muscular man in blue who, judging from his commanding posture and tone of voice, is the leader of the group.

“We reconfigured J.A.R.V.I.S.’s matrix. To create something new.” The man who replies is nervous, yet there is also a note of awe in his voice. The android senses the truth in his statement. This is yet another being to whom he owes his existence.

“I think I’ve had my fill of new.”

Now he understands their aggression. “You think I am a child of Ultron.”

“You’re not?” It is a challenge, not a question. A challenge to prove him wrong.

He hesitates, reluctant to answer untruthfully, yet he cannot completely deny his connection to Ultron. “I am not Ultron.” This he knows to be entirely true. “I am not J.A.R.V.I.S., either. I am...” Another hesitation, a longer one. If neither of these influences defines him, then what does? He is not the mind stone, nor is he the circuitry that makes up his body, or the electricity that runs through it. He is simply himself. “I am,” he finishes softly. It is the truth. He just wishes he knew precisely what that truth meant.

“I looked in your head and saw annihilation.” For the first time the one with the red speaks to him, stepping forward defiantly. He is undaunted by the hostility in her stance, unable to help the hope surging through him. If anyone can understand, can see who he truly is, it is her.

“Look again.” His words are quiet, pleading. One of the few things he does know for sure is that he is not the same mind she saw before, the one that struck fear into her heart. Not after what she showed him, after she opened his eyes to life. He does not hear the next few words spoken, so focused is he on her as doubt crosses her face. She seems to be considering his words. With a start, he realizes Thor is speaking again and quickly turns toward the Asgardian, barely catching the end of his sentence.

“-with it on our side.”

“Is it?” The leader’s words are harsh and untrusting. His stern gaze bores into the android, demanding nothing short of absolute honesty. “Are you? On our side.”

Sensing the gravity of this question, the android considers his answer. He has no desire to pledge his loyalty to a group, no matter the nobility of their intentions. Complete obedience was what Ultron expected of him. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Well, better get real simple real soon.” Another threat.

“I am on the side of life,” he proclaims, stating one of the few things he knows for sure. “Ultron isn’t. He will end it all.”

“What’s he waiting for?”

“You.” He knows from the programming still lingering in his systems that Ultron deems this group, the Avengers, the most prominent threat to his plans. Despite the irrationality of such a decision, Ultron will wait until they are present to complete his scheme, so that he can prove his superiority.

“Where?”

“Sokovia. He’s got Nat there too.”

Another man steps forward, shorter than Thor yet equally as threatening. There is a note of danger in his eyes, in the way he stands like a spring coiled too tightly. “If we’re wrong about you...” His voice is slow and measured, every syllable carefully controlled. “If you’re the monster that Ultron made you to be…”

“What will you do?” The android’s gaze darts nervously from face to face, comparing the expressions he finds there with the emotions leaking from their minds. The answer to his question is clear. They will do whatever they have to. This is his last chance to convince them. And for the sake of the world, he must. “I don’t want to kill Ultron. He’s unique. And he’s in pain. But that pain will roll over the earth, so he must be destroyed. Every form he’s built, every trace of his presence on the net. We have to act now. And not one of us can do it without the others.” All of this is true, and judging from their expressions, the Avengers believe him. “Maybe I am a monster. I don’t think I’d know if I were one. I am not what you are, and not what you intended.” Ultron had wanted perfection, the next evolution of his own consciousness. Stark had wanted a weapon, another machine to do his bidding. He is neither. Whatever he is, no one wanted it, and no one would have made it intentionally. “So there may be no way to make you trust me.” He has said all he can. The choice is theirs. “But we need to go.” Lifting Thor’s hammer, the android offers it to him.

A thick silence settles upon the room’s occupants. Gone is the skepticism and anger, replaced by shock and, in some cases, jealously. One thought dominates the minds around him, echoing and resounding in his head, amplified by its unity:  _ “What  _ **_is_ ** _ he?” _ Thor takes the hammer, a look of deep contemplation on his face. Uncomfortable with the stares upon him, the android quickly turns and exits the room, leaving the gawking beings behind. There will be time enough for further examination and assessment later. They can decide then how they feel about him. Right now, they have a world to save, and they are going to need every bit of help they can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, glad I got that beast of a scene done. There was a lot to cover. Be sure to let me know what you think by leaving a comment. I also enjoy answering questions. I'm really working on making my writing clearer, so if there was any part that was difficult to understand you are more than welcome to tell me so. In addition, I don't have anyone else editing for me, so I would appreciate it if you tell me about any obvious typos you notice. 'Til next time.


	3. Sokovia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Sokovia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a canon character death and mentions of vague suicidal thoughts. Nothing too graphic, though.

The world is crumbling around her. Wanda Maximoff’s homeland is miles in the air, rising with every second, and she is right there with it. Another explosion from outside rocks the shabby hut she crouches in, and she flinches. An image flashes through her mind: a family sitting down to dinner together, laughing, unaware of the missiles about to hit their home. With a gasp, she forces herself to close her eyes, pushing away the memory and fighting the urge to hyperventilate. She is not the helpless child she was then. She is in control, not the fear. An arrow whistles through the streets outside, followed by the hollow clank that means it has found its target. Haweye’s words ring in Wanda’s ears:  _ “It doesn’t matter what you did, or what you were.”  _ There is still time. She can still fix this. _ “If you step out that door, you are an Avenger.”  _ The people outside are defenseless and scared, just like she was ten years ago, and she has the ability to help them. She takes a final deep breath, exhales, and stands. It’s time to fix her mistakes.

Reaching out with her powers to grip the rickety doors, she flings them open and strides onto the debris-strewn street. By the time she crosses the threshold a burst of swirling energy has already formed in her cupped hand, and with one smooth, powerful motion she sends it directly into the core of an Ultron bot. Turning towards the spasming robot, she lifts her other hand, and the red obeys, savagely ripping the creature in half. Its torso smashes through another robot and strikes a building, shattering and scattering metallic shrapnel across the ruins below. Wanda dives to the ground, planting her hands against the cracked concrete, fingers spread wide to siphon power from the very device lifting her country into the sky and holding it captive. Behind her, Hawkeye fires two more arrows, piercing the electronic brains of a couple more bots. Straightening, Wanda pulls back one hand, aims with the other, and launches a glowing ball of energy, in much the same way that Hawkeye shoots his bow. The last of the robots fall to pieces and clatter to the dusty ground. Wanda and Clint exchange nods, then continue down the empty street, sidestepping sizzling robot debris. The battle isn’t over yet.

* * *

The Maximoff twins are the last ones in the old church as their country slowly falls apart around them. The other heroes have already left to escort the civilians onto a flying ship of some sort, but someone has to stay and guard the device from Ultron’s minions.

“Get the people on the boats.” Wanda’s voice is commanding and firm. There is no way her brother will listen otherwise.

“I’m not going to leave you here,” he promptly replies, almost before she has finished speaking.

“I can handle this,” she insists. An Ultron bot charges into the church, and she destroys it with a gesture, proving her point. “Come back for me when everyone else is off, not before.” Her words are rushed, and she hopes he cannot tell how afraid she is.

Pietro glances outside. “Hm,” he says skeptically, taking a few steps away without looking at her.

“You understand?” She can’t keep her voice from pitching slightly higher in exasperation.  _ He had better listen this time... _

Her brother turns around, cocks his hip, and grins that stupid, lovable smirk. “You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you.”

“Go,” Wanda laughs, barely able to resist rolling her eyes.

Maybe she would have said more if she had known what would happen next.

* * *

Bullets rip through the air around Hawkeye as Ultron’s ship approaches, spitting round after round of hot metal into the devastated pavement. The firing ship is almost upon them, and he can’t help thinking this is it. Everyone has the day they died written on their tombstone, and it seems today is going to be on his. He’s not afraid, of course. He knew how dangerous this job was when he signed up. And maybe it wasn’t always, but his slate is clean now. His only real regret is not getting the chance to meet his unborn child. After all, there are worse ways to go out.

The roaring crack of gunfire envelops him, and he ducks, using his body to try to shield the boy he is carrying. A gust of wind whips past him, and he braces himself for the searing pain of impact. But there is only silence, abrupt and absolute. The only sound is the high-pitched ringing in his ears. The shooting has stopped, and he hasn’t been hit by a single slug. A sinking feeling fills Clint’s gut as he slowly lifts his head. Quickly, he checks the boy. He’s unconscious, but fine. Clint turns his head and looks over his shoulder, already knowing and dreading what he will find. There is the Maximoff kid, frozen in place and riddled with red, dripping bullet holes, his face locked in an expression of sudden realization. Somehow, he has saved them. Their eyes meet. Clint opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

The kid smirks sadly. “You didn’t see that coming,” he whispers. Then Clint is watching a nightmare in slow motion, as the sole reason he is still alive buckles at the knees, lurches forward, and hits the dirt. He sees the moment life leaves Maximoff’s body, the second his eyes glaze over. Clint Barton will fight another day; Pietro Maximoff won’t. And like it or not, that knowledge is something he’ll have to learn to live with.

* * *

Miles away, Wanda jerks to a stop, mid-motion, as the force of a dozen bullets slams into her, the shock paralyzing. She gasps in pain, but she isn’t the one bleeding. Her brother is.  _ Pietro… _ She can’t breathe, can’t think. “No…” she whimpers, refusing to believe it. Her voice is lost in the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. Everything is a blur of agony, of jagged metal tearing through her soul. He is slipping away, fading, as his familiar, rapid heartbeat becomes more and more erratic. “No, no...” She is shaking uncontrollably, begging him to live as tears stream down her face. He’s a fighter, they both are, this can’t keep him down! But there are some things you can’t fight. And there are some people who are taken away too soon, leaving nothing behind but the broken pieces of those they loved.

Pietro’s heart stops beating, and her world ends. Every muscle in her body tightens and she struggles to breathe, choking on her sobs, chest heaving. What starts as a gasping cry becomes a raw, wordless scream that bursts from her lungs, burning her throat. Her head throbs with the sheer force of it as she feels her soul being ripped out. Broken, she crumples to her knees. Blood-red tendrils of energy lash out, violently shredding into dust every remaining Ultron minion on the face of Sokovia, viciously taking her anger out upon them. Her grief pierces the dead, dusty air as the last wispy remnants of Pietro’s consciousness vanish. The reassuring touch of his mind, which was never far from her own, and the psychic connection they have shared since they were children is gone forever, as if it never existed. And so is he.

* * *

High above the city, the android grimaces fiercely and scorches an Ultron robot with the blinding beam of the mind stone. Sensing another approaching from behind, he twirls to meet it with a swift uppercut. The head of the machine tears from its body and rockets into the distance, causing the android to cringe. Fighting these robots creates an uncomfortable, crawling sensation under his skin, akin to hypocrisy or betrayal. Yet he persists, knowing his actions are necessary to protect life on this planet.

Detecting another robot, he swoops through the air to meet it, fists outstretched. Just before collision, however, the robot spontaneously disintegrates in a cloud of dust. At the same moment, the android’s mind explodes in a starburst of excruciating agony as a tortured scream cuts through his thoughts, dragging him screeching to a halt. Dizzy with pain, he whips his head in the direction of the cry’s origin, even though he already knows who the source is. Before he has properly evaluated the circumstances and decided on the best course of action, his direction has already shifted and he is soaring across the city, racing towards her without a single moment’s consideration. In the back of his mind, logic catches up, and it asserts that rushing to her aid is a rational and moral response in many respects. After all, there are a multitude of problematic events that could occur before he arrives. Every second counts.

* * *

Wanda walks one step at a time, directing her full focus toward lifting each foot, moving it forward, and setting it down again. If she stops she will think, and there is nothing she wants to avoid more. Once her mind starts working, starts processing what has happened, the moment the bullets hit Pietro’s chest will replay over and over, and she will be forced to face the emptiness of the gaping hole that was her heart. So for now she marches, and if fate is on her side, she will go down when this city does, forever to rest with her brother and country in death.

She steps into the shattered train car where Ultron’s main form slumps, burned and defeated. A bit of red plays about her fingers, shimmering maliciously as the rapidly building wind whips through her hair. Sokovia is still rising, and she can feel the air getting thinner every second as she approaches Ultron’s pathetic, powerless body. Slowly, she crouches next to him, staring into his beady, red eyes and challenging him to beg for mercy. Something flashes across his face. Fear? If it isn’t fear, it will be soon.

“Wanda,” Ultron whispers, a sickening, artificial tone of tenderness in his voice. “If you stay here, you’ll die.”

Cold anger surges in her chest. How dare this murderer pretend to have even a shred of concern for her well-being. What does it matter if she dies now that Pietro is gone? “I just did.” She keeps her voice calm and measured, but her next sentence brims over with an icy fury. “Do you know how it felt?” Her hand shoots out and red rushes into Ultron’s chest, clenching the clump of metal in the center. Slowly, steadily, she drags it upwards, snapping wires, forcing the creaking metal to expand and bulge. He writhes, moans, and she delights in the well-deserved pain she is causing. With a crack, his chest bursts open under the pressure, and Ultron collapses backward with a hollow clunk, reduced to nothing more than a lifeless husk, which is all he ever should have been. Its vacant eyes stare through her as she examines her prize, the essential component, the metal mockery of a human heart that she holds in her hand. She allows herself a twinge of grim satisfaction and a slight smile as she answers her own question. “It felt like that.”

But now her revenge is finished and the smile drops from her face, leaving behind a hazy numbness. The only thing left is to wait for the city to fall. She doesn’t have to wait long. Seconds after her act of vengeance, an Ultron bot, crippled and shutting down, claws its way up the pedestal to where the device activator sits. With one final, monumental effort, it twists the control. Immediately, Sokovia halts in its ever climbing ascent, and for a fraction of a moment seems to hang in midair. An unnatural silence washes over the country. The hairs on the back of Wanda’s neck stand up, and she jerks her head in the direction of the cathedral where she had abandoned her post. There is not even time for a single thought to cross her mind before the ground is pulled out from under her feet, and the city is plummeting toward the earth below.

* * *

The android has nearly reached her when Sokovia crashes out of the sky. The distance between him and the surface of the city suddenly jumps from hundreds of feet to thousands, increasing with every passing second. He dives straight down, flattening his arms against his body to reduce air resistance. Deftly, he weaves between the boulders and pieces of building hurtling toward him, astonished to realize his breathing has intensified and quickened in response to the desperation gripping him.  _ I will reach her in time,  _ he vows.  _ I will not let her fall. _

* * *

The screeching wind whips Wanda’s hair across her face as she falls with her country, feet lifted off the ground, relieved and terrified all at once. At least the decision has been made for her. This is it. No longer will she have to live knowing her other half is gone. She doesn’t know what comes after this world, but anything is better than this. Squinting against the dust stinging her face, she waits for the end and hopes it will be quick. Then strong, warm arms are wrapping around her from behind, one at her knees and the other at her back, gently scooping her out of the air. She whips her head around, shocked to find herself gazing into pale blue eyes. The android stares back at her, seeming almost as surprised as she is. Then he turns his attention skyward, pushes off the floor of the train car, and soars into the air, skillfully dodging massive chunks of stone. As he carries her away, a bitter disappointment washes over her. Because for one fraction of a second, for one glorious, irrational moment, she had thought that her brother had come back for her, just like she had made him promise.

Behind them, Sokovia explodes in a violent burst of heat and lightning, flinging debris in every direction. Wanda screams in terror and clings to her rescuer, clutching the golden cloth of his cape in one hand while flinging her other arm around his neck. He tightens his grip on her, holding her closer to his chest as he fights to maintain control in the chaos of destruction raining down on them. Clamping her eyes shut, she struggles to block out the ringing in her ears and the pounding of her heart.

She has no idea how much time has passed before her rescuer lands softly on a flat surface of some sort, and reality rushes back into existence. She loosens her grip on him and he carefully sets her down, keeping hold of her arms in case she loses her balance. Immediately, she plants her hands on his chest and shoves him as hard as she can. The android staggers backward a step, bewilderment flashing across his face. His lips are forming a question, but she doesn’t let him gather his thoughts. “Why did you rescue me?!?” she shouts, fresh tears staining her flushed cheeks. “I wanted to stay!”

Confusion overtakes his expression. “I saved you,” he earnestly protests, eyes flicking back and forth, searching her face, “because when you looked into my mind, I looked into yours and saw someone worth saving.”

“NO ONE ASKED YOU TO!” She’s screaming at him now, a second wave of grief consuming her as she realizes death has failed her, and there will be no escape from the torment of her loss. She sinks to her hands and knees, shaking sobs racking her body. Suddenly, Hawkeye is there, crouching next to her, pulling her into a hug.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps, and when she hears the tears in his voice, she knows. He was there. He saw her brother die. She buries her face in his smoky vest, and together, they mourn.

* * *

Neither of them notices the android step back, roughly shaking his head, reeling with the emotions overloading his sensors. Pivoting on his heel, he quickly strides across the deck of the S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier and down into its corridors, ignoring the startled glances of the crew he passes. Desperate to distance himself and regain his composure, he marches deeper and deeper into the ship, not caring where his feet lead him. Each grey hallway blurs into the next, all the doors are identical, and the panic in his chest rises to an unbearable level. Frantically, he grabs the handle of yet another door at the end of yet another hallway, and yanks.

He emerges in an echoing, metal-lined chamber, massive and partially filled with cargo. The openness of the space is soothing, and when his breathing slows down in response, he realizes he had been hyperventilating. After a moment, he wanders over to a nearby gap between the stacks of crates and slumps to the floor, allowing his head to rest against the cool surface of the wall behind him. He thinks over this entire confusing day, all of its exhausting events, and, most of all, his strange responses to those events. Why did his breathing become elevated whenever he felt distress? Does he even require oxygen? His thoughts are almost instantly interrupted by a small, fragmented piece of data drifting past his internal sensors, attempting to avoid detection. He recognizes the electronic signature as Ultron’s. One last form has somehow evaded destruction and is now trying to escape, both physically and cybernetically. Wearily, the android sighs, stands up, and goes to take care of the situation. Once again, understanding must wait.

* * *

In the bridge of the helicarrier, Clint limps over to Captain America, who is staring out the window, arms crossed and expression distant. Clint stops next to him and they both watch as the ship glides away from the roiling sea that hides the last remnants of Sokovia. Without turning towards him, Cap asks, “How is she?”

Clint glances toward the corner of the gigantic room, where he left Wanda curled into herself on a cot. From what he can tell, she is still lying on her side, staring listlessly at the wall. He sighs. “Not good. These kinds of things take a while to really set in.”

Cap nods, still not looking away from the window.

Shifting his weight, Clint is silent for a minute. Then, knowing he won’t like the answer, he asks, “What are they planning on doing with her?”

Cap ponders this a moment. “Probably run a bunch of tests, send her to a boot camp, train her to be a S.H.I.E.L.D asset.

Clint curses under his breath. “Nah, that’s really not a great idea right now. She’s too unstable.” He pauses, then reluctantly makes the decision he’s been wrestling with. “I’m takin’ her with me.” Hopefully Laura won’t be too mad. She’ll understand once she gives him the chance to explain.

Cap glances over at him and Clint suspects he sees a hint of a smile. “You’re sure?”

“ ‘Course I’m sure.”

“Alright. I’ll let Fury know.”

_ Yep, he’s definitely smiling _ .

“We’ll have to do something with Stark’s newest project too,” Cap remarks, nodding outside the window. There’s the android, flying past them toward the helicarrier’s deck, returning from who-knows-where.

“Yeah, Fury can deal with that one.”


	4. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first month after the Battle of Sokovia is tough for Vision. It's a nightmare for Wanda.

Seating himself behind the steel table, the director folds his hands and fixes a stern, one-eyed gaze upon his fidgeting captive. “Alright, we’re going to have a little discussion to clear up some details. First question: name?”

The android shifts in the cold metal chair, carefully avoiding eye contact. “I… do not have one.” The admission is inexplicably embarrassing.

Director Fury leans back and sighs with the long-suffering air of a man who does so many times a day. “Well, we do have to call you something. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

The android considers this. He must have some opinion on the matter, but how can he possibly choose at such an early point in his existence? A name, by its very definition, is a classification, an explanation of the nature of an object or being.  _ I know not what I am, and therefore cannot pick an accurate designation for myself at this time. _ He mulls this reply over, but the sensation of being watched prickles his neck, and he lifts his head to see Director Fury scrutinizing him with a calm, calculating intensity. Perhaps this is not the answer the director expects... A temporary name would likely be the most reasonable and prudent option for now. “I was called a ‘vision’ by some of the beings I came into contact with... Will this appellation suffice?”

The director stares at him, expression blank. “You want us to call you ‘Vision?’ “ Receiving a nod in response, he shrugs slightly, glances down at the folder spread out in front of him, and moves onto the next question. The answer must have been acceptable.

A wide array of questions follows, about what happened in Sokovia and the circumstances of his creation, but Vision has few answers to offer. He has resigned himself to yet another hour of interrogation, when the door cracks open, and a young woman wearing a uniform with the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on the sleeve peers in.

“Director Fury, the Warsaw deal has reached a critical point in negotiations.”

Immediately, the director pushes back his chair, stands, and strides out of the room. The messenger follows at his heels, detailing the situation and various counter-measures that have been suggested. Neither bothers to glance back at Vision, still perched stiffly in his chair. Their voices fade as he watches the door inch slowly shut behind them. With a soft click, the lock fastens the thick metal slab shut, cutting off all sound from the tiny room.

The android sits in silence, unmoving, eyes focused on the sealed door. Seconds pass, then minutes. The only noise is his own even breathing. His gaze falls to his hands, clasped tightly together in his lap. Shifting his fingers, he observes how the vibranium glistens in the harsh overhead lights. He curls and uncurls each of them, focusing on the feel of it, on the incredible degree of control he has over each minuscule movement.

“Eh-hem.”

He jerks his head up to see another uniformed agent, hand on the knob of the wide open door, sharp, cold blue eyes contrasting with his unaffected demeanor. “Sir, if you will just follow me, I will show you to your quarters,” he drawls.

Vision promptly stands, realizing a moment too late that the motion was clumsy and abrupt. His guide, however, either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He marches briskly down the hall, weaving through corridor after corridor, never shifting his gaze from the path in front of him. Vision attempts to do the same, forcing himself to ignore the legion of stares burning the back of his neck, the questioning thoughts seeping into his mind from every direction. Neither of them speak.

Finally, the young man halts at an otherwise nondescript navy door with a sign reading “Bunkroom 12.” The corners of the agent’s mouth twist down even further as he turns toward Vision. With a sweeping gaze, he analyzes the android from head to toe, pausing halfway through to lift an eyebrow at the bright yellow cape. He glances down at a clipboard Vision has somehow failed to notice until now, then, seeming to make a decision, resolutely continues down the hallway. Baffled, Vision hovers outside the door for a moment. Then, dipping his head to avoid the renewed and intensified stares, he obediently follows.

A maze of turns and another floor later, they stop again, this time in front of an even blander, more generic door sporting only a number on its black, metallic facade: 449. Contorting himself to maintain a safe distance from Vision as he leans across him, the agent twists the handle and swings the door open.

“Your quarters,” he states.

Gray walls enclose a narrow, rectangular room furnished with a cot, nightstand, and desk. There are no windows, as this particular room is located deep within the ship, and they are standing in the sole entrance. The only other feature is a white plastic clothing rail mounted to the wall. As Vision’s gaze pans the room, a series of internal scans activate, the results flashing across his visual field in the form of electronic menus detailing the height of the desk, the dimensions of the room, and the fact that the furniture is made out of pine. Hearing his guide’s voice, he blinks, and the readouts vanish.

The young man is staring at the utilitarian cot, not bothering to look at Vision as he asks, “Do you even sleep?”

Vision’s mouth has already opened to reply before he realizes this is yet another question he has no answer for. “I... am not sure.”

The agent shrugs. “With a bed like that, it’s probably better if you don’t.” Without another word, he leaves. The android stands alone in the empty, echoing room, arms limp at his sides, eyes flitting across the bare, featureless space. He is not sure what he’s looking for.

* * *

_ Blood pours from beneath her hands, urging her to press harder, try harder to stop it. She is choking on sobs, screaming at Pietro to stop dying. His glassy eyes blink rapidly at the dark sky, not truly seeing it as he gasps for breath. His heartbeat pounds in her ears, thundering bass tones. Sokovia is falling, plummeting into the hungry sea ready to swallow them whole. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters if the bleeding won’t stop. He gasps again, a sound of terrible desperation, his chest heaving. Then it falls, and he collapses into himself, limp and lifeless. His heartbeat is gone, leaving behind only a piercing buzz, rising, sharpening, stabbing her eardrums. He’s dead. Her brother is dead. PIETRO IS DEAD! _

Thrashing at the tangled covers, Wanda screams Pietro’s name. The light clicks on in the hallway, and Laura and Clint rush into the guest bedroom.

“Wanda, wake up honey.” Laura’s tone is calm but insistent. “You need to wake up now. It’s just a dream.” Spurts of red light flash across the walls as Wanda’s powers react to her panic, illuminating Clint and Laura’s anxious features with an eerie glow. Something crashes violently across the room, and they both flinch.

Clint’s expression hardens. “All right, that’s enough.” Dodging her flailing limbs, he grasps the young girl in a firm hug, pulling her close to his chest. She stiffens, then melts into his embrace, shaking with sobs. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe, kid. Everything’s okay.” Gently, he strokes her hair, muttering soothing nonsense like he would with Cooper or Lila. Laura rubs Wanda’s back, slowly moving her hand in smooth circular motions.

“Mommy?” a small, shaky voice calls from the hallway. Lila hovers outside the doorway, eyes wide, clutching a stuffed animal.

Quickly, Laura slips out to meet Lila and scoops her up. “It’s alright, our guest is just having a bad dream. She’ll be okay, like you always are.” Her voice fades down the hallway as she carries Lila back to bed.

When she returns, Wanda seems to have quieted down, her breathing less ragged and with fewer whimpers. Hearing Laura’s footsteps, Clint looks over, still holding Wanda, and gives his wife a sad smile. “I’m gonna grab the spare mattress,” he says quietly. Laura remembers how he slept on the floor for weeks when Cooper was having night terrors. Before she can reply, Wanda sniffs loudly and pulls back, rubbing her swollen eyes with her palms.

“No, no, I’m fine…” Her voice is raspy, and her accent is thicker than ever, making it difficult to understand, but Laura gets the idea. She purses her lips and shakes her head.

“Honey, I don’t think you should be alone right now.” If she has another nightmare who knows how much damage her powers could do. It’s better for Clint to be there so he can wake her up before things get that bad.

The girl hangs her head. “I don’t want to be any trouble,” she whispers, and seeing her there, so small and dejected, Laura realizes exactly why Clint brought her here. She’s a child, without a home or family, who needs their help. And that’s exactly what she’s going to get.

Laura smiles. “You’re no trouble at all.”

* * *

Stacks of paper and Manila folders stamped with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s symbol surround Vision, who sits cross-legged on the floor of his room examining each and every page. After a couple of days spent wandering the depths of the helicarrier, he managed to track Director Fury down and request access to the Avengers’ dossiers, hoping to familiarize himself with their backgrounds. Much of the information is redacted or classified, especially in Agent Romanoff’s file, but even the basics are helpful. There hadn’t been time during the battle to learn everyone’s names, and he thinks it is only right that he knows by whom’s side he fought. Though Director Fury has not mentioned anything, Vision suspects there is a possibility he shall work with the Avengers again, and he is determined to be prepared.

Setting down Captain Rogers’ file, he selects another and flips it open. Intense, shadowed green eyes glare at him from a mugshot on the first page. He straightens, instantly recognizing her. His gaze flicks to the name in bold capital letters at the top. “Wanda Maximoff.” He tests the sound of it, the way the syllables roll together so fluidly. It suits her. He continues reading, absorbing every detail the file can offer.

Miss Maximoff and her brother were born twenty years ago in Sokovia, to Erik and Magda Maximoff. When the twins were about ten years old, two missiles struck their home. The resulting explosion killed their parents and younger sister. After living on the streets for several years, Wanda and Pietro decided to seek revenge on Antonio Stark, whose company manufactured the missiles. They volunteered to participate in the research of Baron von Strucker, a German scientist conducting illegal experiments on human subjects. As promised, they received volatile powers that transformed them into living weapons. The rest he knows.

Leaning back, he stares at the folder in his hands, mentally integrating this information with the rest of his knowledge. Miss Maximoff has lost many things of great importance to her. Losing her brother as well, whom, from what he can tell, she had a special connection with, must be devastating. The last line states her current location as classified. Wherever she is, he hopes she is receiving adequate support. His databases indicate that grief is a particularly difficult emotion to cope with.

* * *

The ceiling fan whirs softly as it spins, around and around. The old clock on the dresser ticks off the seconds as they pass, rhythmic and constant. The soft lullabies of serenading crickets drift through the open window, harmonizing with the gentle owl calls. Night noises sail past Wanda’s ears as she stares silently at the ceiling, not hearing any of it. She’s watching the fan, counting it’s rotations in the dim light bleeding through the curtain. Emotions and thoughts float past, but she pushes them away, refusing to allow them to linger. Anything, even emptiness, is better than reopening the wound.

Faint laughter seeps through the floor, accompanied by the thuds and yelps of Clint and his kids as they roughhouse below. She can picture them chasing each other around the living room, tickling and wrestling, grins stretched across their faces, while Laura playfully scolds them. Cooper and Lila must be up past their bedtime. Or maybe they have a late one. She has no idea what time it is, and doesn’t care to check.

The hours have dragged and flown, tangled together and blurred. She sleeps in the day or the night, only to wake up drenched in sweat and fear, no matter the hour. The nightmares are always waiting, and she doesn’t have the strength to fight them. The numbness in between is a blessing. A relief. But as the sounds of joy and family travel upstairs, taunting her with the kind of life she used to have, she wishes yet again that her heart had stopped when her brother’s did.

* * *

The ocean waves lap quietly against the sides of the helicarrier as it lazily bobs on the water. A seagull trills nearby, then its call fades into the distance. A cool breeze dances over the ship’s deck, playing with the silken cape draped across the shoulders of a solemn, solitary figure. Vision sits cross-legged on the tarmac, motionless. The mind stone casts a faint golden glow across his face as he gazes wistfully at the stars far above, so out of reach. He is always alone at night. Everyone is in their rooms, either soundly asleep or soon to be. There are exceptions, of course, such as the night guards on patrol, and the occasional overly-dedicated trainee in the gym, but he quickly discovered they have no wish to speak with him. So rather than lie on his cot and stare at the bland ceiling of his quarters, as he tried the first night, he instead spends these hours up on deck, watching the journey of the stars and thinking.

Sometimes he ponders how the universe works, how the myriad of moving parts intertwine and connect. This includes the great scientific laws and theories, the everyday interactions of humankind, and everything in between. It is all fascinating and beautiful, almost not to be believed in its complexity. Reflections on these things keep him riveted for hours, and make the solitude almost bearable. But tonight his thoughts rebel, circling back to the same scene over and over again.

On the surface, there is nothing particularly alarming about it. He had found himself caught in the main thoroughfare during “rush hour” early one morning, surrounded by a surging crowd of a surprising number. Person after person elbowed past, exuding purpose and direction as they rushed off to a training room, a research lab, or an essential mission. Focus and determination fixed their eyes forward, and they had no interest in whomever strode shoulder-to-shoulder with them. And Vision had stopped, suddenly and keenly aware that he had no destination in mind, no urgent responsibility to fulfill. He wasn’t even sure why he had stepped out of his room in the first place. And as dozens of people streamed past him in the packed hallway, he noticed he still hadn’t been bumped or nudged a single time. The river flowed without interruption, without any regard to him except for the wary, questioning stares thrown his way when they think he cannot see them. His shoulders slumped, head down, he had wondered how it was possible to be both completely invisible, and uncomfortably conspicuous.

That was one incident out of an entire long, hard week of them. (He recognizes the fallacy in considering the week particularly difficult, seeing as it was his very first and he has nothing to compare it to, but he feels it was all the same.) Each moment taken on its own is inconsequential, likely a coincidence misinterpreted and overthought, but together the meaning is clear. He has no place here, no purpose. Tentatively, he allows his thoughts to proceed to the next painfully logical consideration: perhaps this is true of everywhere. Perhaps he doesn’t have a place at all.

* * *

_ Click, click.  _ A pair of black heels tap angrily against the gray tiled floor as Pepper Potts stalks through the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, shouting into her cell phone. “Yes, I’m here right now! I’m cleaning up your mess, like always! You can’t just throw together a bunch of cutting-edge technology and set it loose into the world! No,  _ I  _ will decide whether or not it’s in good hands. That’s just one of the many things my job seems to include. Well, if I don’t do it, then who will? Look Tony, I have to go. And I will deal with  _ you _ when I get home.”

She hangs up, consults the map Director Fury sent her, and travels deeper and deeper into the maze of corridors. After much exasperation at the seemingly random numbering pattern, she arrives at Room 449 and raps on the door, not noticing it is slightly ajar. It swings open, revealing files scattered across the floor, encircling something resembling an iron man suit wearing a cape. The door slams against the wall and the strange contraption jumps, startled blue eyes whipping toward the noise. Seeing Pepper, it scrambles to its feet, nearly kicking over the file box in the process.

Feeling like an intruder into something private, Pepper cautiously apologizes. “I... I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the door was open.” She gives a slight smile, hoping she doesn’t seem too rattled.

“No, no, that’s quite alright.”

Her jaw drops. She’d know that crisp accent anywhere. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?” she whispers.

He is shaking his head before she has even finished. “Not really.” His brow furrows. “Well, I suppose I am partially. You see, I was constructed from a variety of components, including J.A.R.V.I.S., but I am not him.” He pauses, eyes darting back and forth as if scanning her face for the answer to a question he is afraid to ask. “Did… Did you know him?”

She hasn’t the heart to tell him it’s impossible to “know” an A.I., at least in the same way you know a person. But she can’t deny that she had become attached to J.A.R.V.I.S., almost like he was another member of the team to keep Tony sober and sane. “I guess I did.” He brightens, an endearing eagerness joining, but not replacing, his nervous expression. “But you said you aren’t J.A.R.V.I.S. Who are you then?”

His face falls. “Oh. Well, I am not entirely sure…” A sympathetic frown creases her lips, and he rushes to elaborate. “I’m sorry, you meant my name. You may call me Vision. That is what everyone calls me.”

Based on what Tony told her (more like guiltily admitted), she expected to find a weapon, an iron man suit without the man. She expected another piece of misplaced technology she would have to reclaim to prevent a major disaster. But this jittery being in front of her, with his anxious half-smile and self-conscious manner, is a child, not a machine.  _ What the heck was Tony thinking? _

Her gaze drifts to the papers spread across the room. “I would have assumed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s records were all digitized by now.”

Vision looks down and hastily lifts his foot off a mission report. “Oh, I’m sure they are. Director Fury is likely reluctant to allow me access to their digital database.” He shrugs, the movement obviously an attempt at seeming casual. “His concern is understandable.” He lifts his hands from his sides and holds them out in front of him, slowly turning them over as he examines every angle. “I am still an unknown…”

_ This is just heart-breaking.  _ “Listen, I have to go,” her phone chimes, confirming the statement, “but I’ll talk to Fury about that.” Exasperation seeps into her voice as she mutters to herself, “One look at you and anyone can see you’re harmless.” This whole screening process is completely unnecessary, but that’s agencies for you.

After a quick glance at her phone, she turns to exit, but hesitates at the doorway, feeling Vision’s desperate gaze on her. With a sigh, she faces him again and, pulling out a notepad, jots down her personal number. “Here.” She rips the sheet free and holds it out to him. He pinches it delicately between his thumb and forefinger and reads it, brow furrowed. “Call me if you need anything, and I’ll see what I can do. But please, check the time first.” The last thing she needs is  _ another _ late-night conversationalist.

His eyes meet hers and a lopsided, grateful smile spreads across his face. “Thank you, Ms. Potts.”

She blinks and responds, “You’re welcome.” But as she walks away, she puzzles over how he knew her name. Maybe she’s in those files he has, or maybe there’s more J.A.R.V.I.S in him than he cares to admit. Whatever the case, Tony is going to have plenty to explain when she gets home.

* * *

Gasping for breath, Wanda jerks awake, her eyes snapping open. The fear, the pain, the blood on her hands lingers as her head pounds.  _ No, no, you’re fine, you’re awake, it’s over. It was just a dream.  _ Her ragged breathing slows and the nightmare falls away, leaving behind the same ceiling she’s stared at for weeks now, gray in the dark room. The deep silence tells her it’s the middle of the night and everyone’s in their rooms, asleep. Wanda rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door, opening it a crack and slipping through.

She creeps down the hallway towards the bathroom, hissing when her toes collide with the corner of a bookshelf along the way. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she steps back out, and hesitates, eyeing the dim outline of her room’s door. The sound of gunshots flashes through her mind, and she flinches, squeezing her eyes shut.  _ Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in… Breathe out…  _ Slowly, she opens them again, careful not to look toward her room. Instead, she focuses on the window at the end of the hallway.

Soft moonlight cascades over the window sill, forming silver pools on the hardwood floor. Wanda inches closer until she stands directly in front of the frosty glass. Outside, thick snowflakes float from the sky, drifting down to carpet the ground with a dusting of white, gradually covering the thin patches of green grass poking through. It’s the first snowfall of the season, at least here. Sokovia had been on its fifth.

She forces herself to look away, stepping back from the window into the inky darkness of the stairwell, head throbbing as she fights back tears. She’s cried plenty in the past few weeks. Everything and nothing sets her off, and once it starts it doesn’t stop for hours. She sleeps all the time, but wakes up exhausted. Days crawl by, time blurs, and she stands in one place. She is stuck in a damp, dark well, forced to drag herself out with the tiny, cramped finger holds she chances upon. She hasn’t climbed high enough to see the light at the top yet. Maybe there isn’t one. And sometimes she slips and falls back to the bottom, back to the thick, muddy layer of grief threatening to cover her, suffocate her.

The overcast weather certainly hasn’t helped. The clouds have stayed low and dense, blotting out the sky. It only seems fair, though. Her sunshine is gone; why should anyone else get to see theirs?

_ Creak.  _ She blinks down at the squeaking board beneath her foot, then glances blankly around. She’s in the middle of the kitchen. When… When did she walk down the stairs? A thud and quiet curse sound from behind her, and she turns to watch as a bleary-eyed Clint stumbles through the doorway, rubbing his shoulder. He visibly brightens when he sees her, stopping mid-step, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Hey, you came out of your room. That’s great!”

Wanda crosses her arms and steps away, off to the side, shrugging and ducking her head.

“You want something to eat?” Clint yanks open the refrigerator door, and Wanda flinches away from the flood of light, lifting a hand to cover her eyes. Squinting into the glare, Clint rummages around, shoving aside bottles and jars of every size imaginable.

“I-” Her voice cracks. She pauses, then clears her throat. “I’m not really hungry.” Her voice is hoarse, her throat raw, and she realizes she hasn’t spoken a full sentence in... a while.

Clint smiles over his shoulder at her before leaning so far into the fridge that half of his torso disappears. There’s a muffled shuffling, then an exclamation of “Ah-ha!” as he squirms back out, proudly holding his prize. It is three quarters of a chocolate bar, its foil wrapper slightly rumpled. Clint carefully unfolds the bar, breaks off a modest piece, and offers the rest to Wanda. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepts it. She turns the candy over in her hands as Clint chomps into his half and moans.

“Mhm… Cold chocolate is the best. Not to mention the back of the fridge is the perfect place to hide it from the kids. Cooper is a notorious sweets thief.” He chuckles, then notices Wanda hasn’t taken a bite. “Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate.”

She glances at his skeptical expression, then nibbles on the corner of the bar. It’s been years since she’s had candy of any sort, and the zing of the sugar hits her first, causing her to wrinkle her nose. This is followed by the bitterness of the cocoa, bringing a balance to the taste. She can’t stop the small smirk turning the corners of her lips as she takes another bite.

Clint grins triumphantly. “Ha! No one can resist chocolate.” Pulling a stool back from the breakfast bar, he flops down and rests his elbows on the counter. Wanda does the same, albeit less forcefully, and they sit in the dim kitchen in silence for a few minutes, savoring the last of their chocolate. Clint nods at the bay window in the living room, visible through the framed opening between the rooms. “Sun’s coming up.”

Sure enough, a red half circle peeks over the horizon, its light glittering through the frosted tree branches. The sky above it turns a deep purple, then a ruddy orange as the sunlight spreads. Streaks of gold and pale pink dance over the horizon. The world is coming to life again. Belatedly, Wanda realizes it wasn’t night when she woke up, just very early morning.

Clint drapes an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into a gentle side hug. “I know, kid. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, she’s aware of teardrops rolling down her cheeks, but they’re not like the other tears she’s cried in the past few weeks. Those were made of pain and grief, the kind that burn your throat and make your head throb. These are gentle, a release. They’re a cleansing. So she lets them fall. The night is ending, and the day is just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update. I didn't forget about this fic! Real life just got in the way. I also caught writer's block and decided to take a time-out to refine some aspects of my writing style I thought were lacking. Things should be a little smoother moving forward. This update brings us over 10,000 words! I did not expect to hit that milestone so quickly. In addition, this chapter has some of the first deviations from canon. S.H.I.E.L.D. is running covertly after the whole HYDRA incident, and Fury is still the director. Some of Wanda's backstory is a little different. Stuff like that. As always, let me know what you think! Cheers!


	5. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas shouldn't hurt this much. And reunions shouldn't end in tears.

“Honey!!! Did we ever end up buying cranberry sauce?” The Barton household’s extensive network of air vents carries Clint’s exasperated yell all the way upstairs to the guest room, as it does with Laura’s reply.

“Yes, it’s on the middle shelf in the cupboard by the fridge.”

There’s a clamor of cabinet doors opening then slamming shut. “I don’t see it!”

Wanda sets down the book she borrowed from Laura’s impressive collection and wanders downstairs to the kitchen, leaning against the door frame to observe. Clint is digging through the wrong cabinet when Laura walks in, heads straight for the cupboard next to the fridge, and pulls out a brightly colored can.

“I couldn’t find it in there!” Clint protests, crossing the room to her. She holds the can away from him.

“Maybe I’d better take over.”

“No, no, I said I could handle it.” He fixes her with a stern look. “Besides, you should be resting. You shouldn’t be standing for more than an hour now that you’re in the ninth month.”

Laura crosses her arms and lifts an eyebrow. “And how’s that supposed to work when I have to keep you from burning the house down?”

“I could help.” Both Bartons jump a little, turning toward Wanda. She blushes and shrugs. “I used to help my mother with the cooking during Hanukkah. It’s been a while, but I still know my way around a kitchen.”

Laura purses her lips, torn between hospitality and soothing her aching feet. “Are you sure?” Wanda nods, and Laura shoots Clint a warning look before gingerly making her way back to the living room.

Clapping his hands together, Clint turns to Wanda with a grin. “Where do we start, Chef?”

“I think,” she glances around the kitchen, “we should start with the ham?”

For the next couple hours she takes the lead, instructing Clint on exactly what to do at every step, adding her own touches to the menu here and there. Scents both savory and sweet fill the kitchen, and Wanda is surprised to realize her mouth is watering. For the first time in weeks, she feels hungry. The ham is nearly done, the yams are simmering on the burner, and the cranberry sauce is in a dish when the doorbell chimes. Clint freezes, eyes wide and staring at the door. Laura sits up in the recliner as abruptly as she can, guiltily glancing between her husband and the front door.

“I forgot to mention. My mother’s in town.”

His jaw drops, astonished betrayal covering his face. “What?!? But I thought she was in Paris! I invited Nat! Laura, she’ll be here any minute!!!”

“Well, I’m sorry, but Mom’s here now.” She retracts the chair’s footrest, braces her hands on the arms of the chair to push off, then sighs wearily and sinks back into the cushions. “Could someone please get the door?”

Clint is glued to the floor, the kids are somewhere upstairs, and Wanda finds herself moving toward the door before she even realizes what she’s doing, automatically answering Laura’s request. The handle turns, the door opens, and she is face to face with a tall, primly dressed, pucker-mouthed woman.

The lady eyes her up and down, expression never changing or betraying the slightest hint of surprise at the disheveled girl who answered the door. She finishes her examination and nods. “Ah. Another stray, I see.”

Wanda’s face reddens as she suddenly realizes how she must look in baggy, borrowed clothes and fuzzy slippers. Peering past her, the woman exclaims, “Laura! My dear, you look exhausted!” She shoulders past Wanda and into the house, heading straight for her daughter.

“Mom, I’m fine. The last month is always the hardest.”

“Well, where are Cooper and Lila? They should be helping you!”

“I told them to go play out back. They were just being rowdy.”

Wanda hovers nearby, watching the conversation, wondering whether she should return to the kitchen. A cold gust sweeps over her as the door opens again and Natasha steps in, shoving a snow-encrusted scarf back from her face. She nods at Wanda, hangs up her leather coat, and slips across the living room into the kitchen, unnoticed by Laura and her mother.

After a pause, Wanda starts on the same path, trying to keep from making any sudden movements and drawing attention to herself. The end is in sight when she hears a voice behind her loudly remark, “And this must be the girl you were talking about.”

Caught, she reluctantly turns around, pulling her hands into her sleeves and crossing her arms. Laura frowns at her mother before smiling reassuringly at Wanda. “Yes, Wanda’s been a great help around here, especially tonight.”

Her mother lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Hm. Well, that’s nice.”

Clint pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Hi Lucille.” He ignores the “harrumph” he receives in response, shifting his gaze to Wanda. “Could you come look at the ham? I think I might have done something wrong.”

Wanda rushes into the kitchen, half expecting to see smoke streaming out of the oven, or even a small fire. Instead, everything seems well in order. Natasha is slicing the ham, the yams are in a covered dish, and a few bottles of sparkling cider are waiting on the counter. When she cocks her head at Clint, he shrugs, nonchalant.

“I figured you were looking for an excuse to leave.” He throws a wary look over his shoulder, then whispers, “Lucille sometimes has that effect on people. Don’t worry though, she’s not that bad once you get to know her.”

“I hope we don’t have a disaster on our hands,” the subject of his whispers calls out. “Do you need some help in there?”

“Nah, we’re good!” Clint yells back, then turns to Wanda. “Everything  _ is _ good, right? Are we done here?”

After another quick survey of the kitchen, noting the crisp dinner rolls, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and gravy, all either in a china serving dish or ready to put in one, she slowly nods. “I think so.”

The next twenty minutes or so are pandemonium, as the children rush in from outside, brushing snow off their winter gear and all over the floor, shouting “Merry Christmas Eve!” Meanwhile, the adults set the table, doing their best to arrange the many plates and utensils effectively on the somewhat small surface. Finally, they are all seated, with Lucille, unsurprisingly, at the head of the table. “Let us now say grace,” she announces, just as Wanda is reaching for her fork. She drops her hand into her lap and bows her head, trying to ignore the insistent grumbling of her stomach. After the long, eloquent prayer, everyone digs in, agreeing in between bites that the food is delicious.

“Well, I couldn’t do it without Wanda’s help.” Clint grins over at her.

“Got that right,” Natasha states dryly, causing the kids, who are seated on either side of her, to burst into giggles.

“Daddy burns pop tarts!” Lila declares, proud to contribute to the conversation.

“Hey, come on you guys! I’m not that bad.”

Lucille shakes her head in disapproval, then turns her attention to Natasha. “It’s nice to see you yet again. You work with Clint, correct?”

“Yep,” Clint interrupts. “We’re work friends.”

“I see. And how are you two doing in your jobs as-” she lifts an eyebrow, fixing them with a penetrating stare “-traveling salespeople?”

Natasha gives Clint an I-told-you-so look before responding. “Business is always good this time of year. Lots of people looking for holiday gifts.”

“Ah.”

For anyone watching, it’s plain to see that these people are family. Even Lucille and Natasha fit right in. Friendly jabs are exchanged, and little inside jokes. Smiles and gestures of affection, a teasing elbow to the ribs there, a ruffling of the hair here. It’s a language all its own, one of intimate knowledge and open acceptance of each other. Wanda fixes her eyes on her plate, trying not to hear the laughter.

Her father used to chuckle quietly, the way Clint just did. Her mother’s smile dazzled everyone around her, like Laura’s. Her sister used to laugh so hard she’d choke, something Lila risks doing right this very moment. And her brother… Her brother used to elbow her whenever she made a joke at his expense, used to talk with his mouth full, used to burst into song at random moments, used to… He used to be everything to her. He still is.

Wanda watches from the outside, aching, longing, breaking. No one can tell. Her eyes are dry, her mouth neither smiling nor frowning. She’s fine. She’s fine, but she’s not okay. And maybe that’s all she can hope for.

* * *

A howling winter wind whistles outside the helicarrier, stirring up frigid ocean waves that crash and pound against the sturdy ship. A storm rages in the black, starless night, but inside, where an android sits in his quarters listening to a recording, staring at the wall without actually seeing it, the storm is but a whisper.

_ “Well, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. Right now I’m stuck in Tokyo finishing up an important deal, but I’ll try to stop by and see you when I can. I’ve made a few calls, and you should be someplace more interesting by the end of the month. I have to go. Hang in there, Vision.” Click. _

The recording ends. Vision considers playing it again, for what would be the sixth time, but decides there isn’t much point. He understands the message and its meaning. Ms. Potts is busy doing essential work for Stark Industries and hasn’t the time to visit. A call on Christmas morning, even a short one, was far more than he had expected anyway. He should be satisfied.

With a sigh, he rises and exits his quarters. The deep, vibrating buzz of the helicarrier’s cooling system fills the deserted passageways, causing the floor to quiver slightly. Vision faces the vast main thoroughfare, the one that’s never empty, not even at night. There’s always an intern working late, a guard patrolling, an agent returning from a mission. Yet not a single soul can be seen tonight. Moonlight breaks through the storm clouds, streaming through the row of skylights and illuminating a path along the corridor’s floor. Vision follows its guidance, listening to the precise, metronomic clack of his boots against the tile. The sound bounces off the walls, amplified by the emptiness of the space.

He navigates the twists and turns crisply, sure of his choice at each intersection, and soon arrives at the cargo hold. The cool air and the low, steady hum of the ship’s motors are as soothing to him as when he first stumbled upon the chamber. He weaves through stacks of crates and vacuum-sealed containers, never glancing at the mysterious coded writing on the sides.

Rounding a corner, he immediately backpedals, barely keeping from running into a S.H.I.E.L.D. employee. The young man glances over his shoulder, then returns his attention to the open box in front of him. “You again. You better not be following me,” he drones, marking off an item on his clipboard.

_ Ah. Him.  _ It’s the guide from his first day here. “I assure you, I am certainly not.”

Apparently deigning not to reply, the agent continues his careful analysis of the box’s artifact. Vision shuffles forward, eyeing the narrow gap between the man and the tower of crates, calculating whether the space is large enough to slip past without seeming rude. His plans are foiled when the agent turns around and peers through the slits of one of the crates behind him. A name tag pinned to his uniform with the word “Simon” catches the light.

“Come down here to chill like usual?” Vision blinks at Simon, his lips forming a question, but is interrupted before giving voice to it. “Yeah, I noticed. Not as sneaky as you think, are you?” He makes another mark on the clipboard. “Must have been feeling lonely with everyone off with their families for the holidays. After all, no one wants to be alone on Christmas. Good thing you have this place to come to. The big ol’ engines must feel just like family to you, like your nuts-and-bolts brothers and sisters.” He pauses, then glances at Vision out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry, did you need to get through?” he drawls, a smirk twisting his lips.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” is the terse, clipped reply.

Gesturing grandly, Simon steps out the way with a little bow. Vision strides onward, refusing to acknowledge the mocking gaze he feels on his back or the snickering laughter. It’s not worth his time.

Once out of sight he accelerates almost to a run, boxes and crates blurring on either side. Finally, he reaches a secluded corner of the room, where the largest, least used equipment is stored in massive boxes, many of them large enough to comfortably hold a human. His feet lift off the ground as he flies just high enough to drift over the stacks and into the hollow space he created through careful rearrangement. He sinks to the ground, nearly filling the tiny cubby-hole, surrounded and sheltered by giant crates seven deep and ten tall. Where his back presses against the wall he feels the rumble of the ship’s engines, murmuring a reassuring rhythm. Exhaling, he closes his eyes, pulls his knees to his chest, and rests his forehead on his arms. The rest of the night is spent sitting there in silence, motionless and alone.

* * *

Colors drift across the screen, images of people, objects, places. Hushed, flat noises exit the speakers, the actors’ words barely audible. Wanda wraps the blanket tighter around her and settles more deeply into the couch. This is the third, or maybe fourth movie tonight. The plot and characters don’t mean anything to her; the only things she sees are vague movements as the shapes shift on the television. All she wants is the distraction.

A door opens down the hallway, the floorboards creaking. Laura shuffles into the room, dressed in loose pajamas. She smiles at Wanda before settling onto the couch with a soft groan. Scooting over to give Laura more room, Wanda glances at her, then back to the movie.

“Which one is it this time?” Laura asks quietly.

Lifting the corners of the blanket, Wanda searches briefly for the movie case, then gives up with a shrug. “I don’t know.” She stares straight ahead, determined to ignore the pitying look she knows will be sent her way.

A rustling comes from her right as Laura shifts uncomfortably and sighs. “I can’t sleep either. They say that it’s best to get sleep when you can now because you won’t get any when the baby is born, but this one-” Wanda watches from the corner of her eye as Laura rests a hand on the side of her bump. The dim, blue light from the television illuminates her fond smile, shining with a mother’s love. “-is a little night owl. Never wants to sleep when I do.”

The screen blurs through the ever-present tears welling in Wanda’s eyes, ones she refuses to let fall. It’s been ten years since her mother died. It shouldn’t still hurt like this.

“Do you mind if I stay and watch with you?” Laura’s quiet voice is worried, gentle, understanding, and Wanda feels her resolve melting away.

She leans closer, resting her head on Laura’s shoulder, allowing her caretaker to wrap her arm around her. “No. I don’t mind.”

Laura nods, brushing her fingers through Wanda’s hair, respectfully watching the screen instead of the tears beginning to stream down her face. It shouldn’t still hurt like this, but it does.

* * *

Vision steps into the office, squares his shoulders, and demands an answer. “When shall I be sent to train with the Avengers?”

Director Fury smoothly signs an authorization request, forming each loop of his name with practiced ease. Then he folds the paper into equal thirds and slides it into a stiff cream envelope. “That is one heck of a loaded question,” he leans back in his desk chair, crossing his arms, “with a truckload of underlying assumptions.”

Frustration surges within Vision, hot and constricting. He knows what a loaded question is, knows all about logical fallacies. They are, in fact, one of the few fields he understands completely and without question. That is not the issue here. “I feel I am perfectly justified in making those assumptions, and therefore in asking that question. That is my purpose, is it not? To defend those who require it, to battle threats to the public’s well-being, to stand alongside others with the same goals?”

One sharp, steely eye locks onto him, staring straight through him, stripping away his false boldness, his exaggerated assurance and seething indignation. The anger drains out of him, leaving only shame and resignation. Vision slowly drops his gaze to the floor.

“The answer is when you’re ready.  _ If  _ you’re ready.” Director Fury’s eye is still fixed upon him, unwavering, unblinking. He lowers his voice, but the intensity remains. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Vision forces the words out, loathing every syllable. “I understand.”

* * *

Hushed voices from the living room catch Wanda’s ears, and she halts. Cautious steps take her further down the hallway, where she can hear more clearly.

“It’s not that I don’t like having her here. I’m glad you brought her. It’s just…” Laura trails off.

Wanda risks a peek around the corner. Clint is staring at the rug, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “It’s just we have other things to think about,” he finishes.

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Things are really going to change around here soon. It always does. We’ll have the new baby to worry about, as well as making sure Cooper and Lila still get enough attention. Having another person to keep an eye on…”

“It would be a lot. I get it.” Clint sits back on the couch and folds his arms, eyes half-closed. He looks exhausted.

“She’s been doing better. The nightmares aren’t every night, and she’s so much more responsive than she was,” Laura points out earnestly, gesturing as she speaks.

Wearily, Clint rubs the bridge of his nose. “But she still wanders around like a ghost most days. I think the kids are kinda scared of her, actually…” A twinge of embarrassment strikes Wanda. Is she really that bad? “Maybe a change of scenery would be good for her.”

“She needs a purpose,” Laura agrees, nodding. “Something to focus on, a goal of some sort.”

“So you think I should… I don’t wanna send her away, just like that.”

“I’m not saying you should make the decision right now. Go to the meeting and hear what they have to say first.”

“But you really think she could be Avengers material?”

Wanda freezes.

Laura shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”

* * *

Vision weaves through the crowded hall, idly panning over the faces of those walking the other direction. He’s a head taller than most of them, giving him a useful vantage point for observation. It isn’t surprising that everyone he meets does makes every effort to avoid eye contact, eyes darting in every other possible direction. Until someone breaks the pattern. She meets his gaze, nods politely, and slips past him.

_ Wait, wait…  _ He whips around, searching for a glimpse of vibrant red hair. Nothing. She’s gone. “Agent Romanoff!” he calls, then winces at the note of desperation in his voice.

_ “Foolish robot.” _

_ “Annoying thing.” _

_ “You don’t just  _ yell  _ for Romanoff. Everyone knows that.” _

The thoughts of the sea of people streaming past him burn in his mind, but he steels himself, inhaling to shout again.

“What?”

He jumps, spinning a complete 180 degrees. How did she sneak up on him like that?

Cool blue eyes examine his face, and a red eyebrow lifts questioningly. “What is it?”

“I just… I thought…” he stammers, heat rushing to his face. “It’s just... You’re the first person I’ve seen here that I know.”

The eyebrow lowers and her features soften, almost imperceptibly. “And you got excited.”

Vision peers down at the floor, feeling childish. “Yes.”

“Look, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a natural reaction to an uncertain situation.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he blurts out, lifting his head to meet her eyes again.

She smiles, as if she was expecting that. “I know. But you will.” With those enigmatic words hanging in the air, she disappears into the crowd again.

This time, however, Vision can deduce where she is going.

A few minutes later, he wavers outside the closed door to Director Fury’s office.  _ It would be unethical to eavesdrop… _ Glancing down the hallway in both directions, he unpins a memo from a nearby bulletin board, leans with his back against the wall, and pretends to read the sheet of paper. Mentally, he adjusts a couple of settings, increasing the strength of his auditory sensors and therefore the volume of the conversation in the office.

“Well, Laura and I have been talking about it…” The voice is only vaguely familiar, but a quick database search reveals that it belongs to Agent Barton. “And yeah, the kid’s starting to come out of it, but she’s still struggling.”

“From my experience, having a mission to work towards can help with that.” Captain Rogers. His speech pattern is highly definitive.

“Yeah, we kinda thought the same thing. I just don’t want to throw her into something she’s not ready for. Could set her back instead of helping her.”

“We would put her through extensive training and evaluation before bringing her on any missions, of course.” Agent Romanoff sounds calm and logical, as if she already knows what the outcome of this discussion will be. She probably does. “It’ll be weeks before she’s cleared for field combat.”

There’s a muffled rustling noise, then a sigh. “I’ll talk to her about it,” Agent Barton agrees, though a bit reluctantly.

“What else would you do with her? She can’t hide on the farm forever.”

A moment of silence. “I don’t know.”

A chair creaks, then Director Fury clears his throat. “What about the other loose end?”

“Same deal as Maximoff. We run him through our training program and see if he makes the cut.” She pauses, then continues in a different tone, one with fewer hard edges. “I met him on my way here. He needs this just as much as the rest of us do. Maybe even more.”

“And if he doesn't make the cut?” The director is all business. “You should know I’m not taking him back. He hasn’t caused any trouble, but I don’t have time to baby-sit.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

* * *

A cry of pain pierces the early evening air as Wanda rushes down the stairs and into the living room. Laura is gripping the back of the couch, other hand pressed to the side of her abdomen. Clint darts in and out of the room, throwing clothes and other items into a duffel bag.

“I thought…” Laura manages through gritted teeth, “you said the bag was already packed.”

“It was! But then I remembered some things I forgot!”

She shakes her head, then winces. “When is my mom going to get here?”

“Soon! It has to be soon, I called her almost two hours ago!” Throwing open the door, he hoists the bag on his shoulder and runs out into the light rain.

She mutters, “Every time. This happens every time. We  _ think  _ we’re ready...”

Tentatively, Wanda clears her throat. Glancing over, Laura smiles wearily. “Don’t worry, you’re not going to be left alone with the kids. My mom should be here-” She gasps and squeezes her eyes shut. “-shortly.”

Wet and breathless, Clint stumbles back in. “She’s here! Thank God, your mom’s here!”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Lucille mutters, collapsing her umbrella and stepping inside. “Now go on you two, and don’t worry about the children.” Noticing Clint frantically searching the closet, she hands the umbrella to him. “Just use this one.”

“Thanks! Alright, let’s go!” He passes the umbrella to Wanda and hurries to his wife’s side, supporting her with an arm around the waist.

“Wait, I’m coming?!” Wanda asks, bewildered.

Laura opens her mouth to answer, but is interrupted by another contraction.

“Yeah!” Clint replies for her, still heading toward the door.

Something clicks into place. Wanda slips out ahead of them, popping the umbrella open. She guides them to the van, sheltering them from the rain as Clint helps Laura into the back, where there’s more room. Then she climbs into the passenger seat, Clint into the driver’s, and they’re off, speeding down gravel roads and country highways.

Eventually, they pull into the clinic’s parking lot, and Wanda immediately hops out to hold the umbrella again. They check in briefly at the front desk and head for their reserved room, where a nurse gets Laura settled in and attaches a couple of different monitors and sensors. Clint tosses the duffel on the floor and flops into a chair. Still standing, Wanda shifts from one foot to the other, nervously glancing around the room.

“What now?”

“Now,” Clint sits back and folds his hands behind his head. “We wait.”

A few hours and many cups of crushed ice later, at 10:34 PM, the newest Barton enters the world, red-faced and screaming. Clint is sobbing, and Laura’s cheeks are wet as the tiny newborn is placed on his mother’s chest, immediately quieting at her touch. Nurses bustle around the room, performing various wellness checks, but their patients hardly notice.

Clint kneels next to the bed, reaching out to brush his son’s back. “Welcome to the world, little guy,” he sniffs, then chuckles when the baby crinkles his nose. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

It’s a beautiful, intimate scene. “I’ll get some more ice,” Wanda murmurs, slipping into the hallway. They deserve this moment to themselves. She wanders down the adjoining corridors for a few minutes, awkwardly avoiding the eyes of medical personnel walking by. When she steps back into the room, Clint is cradling his son in his arms all wrapped up in a plush blanket. He glances at Laura, lifting his eyebrows in a silent question. She nods and smiles. Taking small, cautious steps, Clint crosses the room to Wanda.

“Would you like to hold him?”

She can’t remember ever holding a baby before, and this one’s so tiny and fragile. “Can… can I sit down first?”

Clint nods, and once she’s ready, gently lays the newborn in her arms. His miniature hands wave weakly in protest as he’s transferred, but when she pulls him closer, being sure to support his head, he snuggles into her warmth. His little face is all red and scrunched up, eyes still unopened, and he’s wrinkled all over. Yet there is something hopelessly adorable about him, no matter his appearance.

“His name is Nathaniel, after Natasha,” Clint announces, and Wanda nods. She has known about that for a while. “Nathaniel Barton has a nice ring to it, I think. But he still needs a middle name.” There is a gravity, an importance to this remark, and Wanda lifts her head to watch Clint. He is studying the tiled floor, working to compose himself. After a deep breath, he meets her gaze. “We’d like to name him after Pietro. If it wasn’t for your brother,” his voice cracks and he shakes his head, “I wouldn’t be meeting my son right now. So with your permission…”

The hospital room blurs through Wanda’s tears, as does Nathaniel sleeping in her arms, his lips twisted in a tiny frown. Everything about him is so fresh and new. He is a precious little life, bringing hope into the world with him. For someone else to carry on her brother’s memory, for her not to be the only one left… Nothing is better.

She opens her mouth, but a choked sob is all she can manage. She nods and forces the word out. “Yes.”

The shining wetness in Clint’s eyes doesn’t escape her notice as he quickly directs his gaze out the window, blinking rapidly. “It means a lot to us too. Thanks.”

Laura is smiling fondly at them, both of them. The Bartons have given Wanda so much. A place to stay, people to rely on, loving care. And hope. The world keeps spinning on as things change and new life begins. Nathaniel opens his eyes, squinting past Wanda at the ceiling, and she smiles down at him. The world keeps moving on, and it’s time she does the same.

“The other answer is yes, too.” Laura’s brow furrows and Clint turns away from the window, a question in his eyes. Wanda takes a deep breath. “I’ll go.”

Realization dawns on the couple, and they exchange glances, then focus on her again. “Honey, are you sure?” A motherly concern etches lines across Laura’s face. “This isn’t a decision to be made lightly.”

“You’re always welcome with us,” Clint adds hastily.

“I know. But no one can stay in the same place forever.” She shakes her head, looking down at Nathaniel again. “Not even me.”

* * *

Just a few more days. This time next week, Vision will be standing in the New Avengers Facility, an eager new trainee. Right now, he paces up and down his room, cape swishing at his feet with every pivot. Abruptly, he halts in front of a wall plastered with the cover sheets from his files, carefully attached to the wall with some tape he borrowed from an empty desk. Each piece of paper includes a photograph and basic information about the subject. Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff, the leaders of the New Avengers, are side by side near the top. Below them is a line of four recruits. In order to find the membership data, Vision was forced to use the backdoor of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases. This breach of conduct was regrettable, but proper preparation is a necessity. Speaking of, it couldn’t hurt to review the information one last time.

First is Colonel James Rhodes, a decorated United States Air Force officer and close friend of Mr. Stark. The picture shows a calm, confident man with an even smile. Vision is quite familiar with Colonel Rhodes due to his previous programming as J.A.R.V.I.S., and knows him to be a brave and noble fighter. The New Avengers are fortunate to have him.

Next is Samuel Wilson, a former United States Air Force para-rescue airman. His picture grins back at Vision, a twinkle in his eyes. Some of Mr. Wilson’s achievements include operating experimental flight equipment and assisting Captain Rogers in the battle against HYDRA. It is easy to see why he was asked to join the team.

Vision skips his own informational sheet. There’s no point in reviewing line after line stating “Unknown” or “N/A.”

Stepping over to the last paper, he stops and examines it for a moment. Wanda Maximoff. Sokovian, orphan, protester, superhuman, villain, hero. Scattered across the page are a multitude of words, all seeking to define her. He lifts his hand, fingers hovering over the photograph, the striking green eyes. Everything here says she is harsh, violent, chaotic. Someone to keep under close surveillance, someone you’d better not turn your back on for fear of what she might do. Looking at her file, you would think she’s cold-hearted, permanently hardened by adversity.

But that’s not what he felt. When he held her in his arms as Sokovia was falling, lifted her up and carried her to safety, it was the first time he’d ever touched someone. And she was warm and soft, far smaller and more delicate than he’d expected. Stronger, too. She had pushed him after they landed, shoved him so hard he stumbled. That won’t be how it is this time. Then she had been upset, rightfully distraught as her world crumbled around her. Now, they will be teammates.

Vision lets his fingers rest on the picture, so gently they barely make contact. Miss Maximoff is important. He may not know why, but he intends to find out.

* * *

The day comes all too soon. No matter how many times Wanda wished she could change her mind, refuse to leave the one safe shelter she’s found, she didn’t, and now it’s time to go. The morning whirls past, a flurry of preparations and kind advice. Now Laura is saying goodbye, promising that she’s always welcome, she can always come back and stay with them if she needs it, or if she just misses them. Cooper and Lila keep their distance, offering only hesitant farewell waves. Nathaniel cries when Wanda passes him back to his mother, and she fights the urge to burst into tears too.  _ I chose this,  _ she reminds herself. _ I made the decision. It’s for the best. _

Then comes the long car ride with Clint, who volunteered to drive her. They’re both silent, lost in thought, Clint rubbing his bleary eyes from time to time. She watches out the window as the countryside disappears, replaced by towering skyscrapers and narrow, winding roads. Soon the city fades away again, pushed out by rolling, snow-blanketed hills and thick forests. She frowns. This is not where she would expect to find a high-tech facility. Finally, the trees open into a huge clearing dominated by a sprawling stainless steel complex. The windows and metal catch the harsh, white sunlight, forcing her to look away.

Clint parks haphazardly before circling around to the passenger door. Holding it open, he peers down at Wanda, his brow furrowed. “Are you good, or do you need a minute?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m good.”

Their footsteps crunch in the thin layer of snow as they approach the glimmering building. Wanda’s heart pounds in her chest. With every step, the tide of emotions and thoughts flowing into her mind rises, some practically shouting, others barely above a whisper. There are so many many of them, dozens, hundreds, each thinking a thousand miles an hour, dousing her in worries, ideas, excitements, fears. She’s made a mistake, this is too much, she forgot the pain that comes with this, escape, she needs to escape-

“Whoa, whoa, just stop for a minute.” Clint places his hands on her shoulders and pulls her away from the building. “Just breathe. Don’t think about them, just breathe. Inhale… Exhale…” He demonstrates, taking deep, slow breaths.

She grits her teeth and nods, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking out every noise but her own breathing.  _ In. Out. In. Out. In… Out… In… … Out… … _

Wind whistles gently through the mountains of her mind, ruffling her hair, soothing her nerves. Safe. She is safe. She isn’t crouched on the pavement outside a government compound, struggling not to panic. Instead, she’s home in the mountains of Sokovia, barefoot, with the breeze in her hair.  _ One last breath. _ She opens her eyes. She lifts her head, looking past Clint to the facility.

“Let’s go.”

He bites the corner of his lip. “You sure?”

She strides past him before she loses her nerve. The longer she waits, the more likely she’ll cave, start crying on his shoulder and begging to go back with him. She won’t; she’s going to do this no matter how much it hurts.

Shoving through both sets of doors, she steps into a large, well-lit lobby, with walls composed almost entirely of windows. The other features are the same stainless steel as the outside, polished to an extravagant shine. Workers bustle past carrying cardboard boxes of personal belongings and office equipment, many of them scanning the room as they walk through. It appears she’s not the only new person here.

“Miss Maximoff,” a voice calls from her left, and she whips around to see Captain America, out of uniform but just as heroic-looking. He steps toward her, stretching out his hand in greeting, a kind smile on his face. “It’s good to have you here.”

Wanda considers the hand, then tightly crosses her arms, eyes turning to the floor.

Clint jogs up behind Wanda and offers his teammate a snappy salute. “Captain.”

The Captain smiles and shakes his head, returning the greeting before slipping his hand back into his jacket pocket. “Welcome to the New Avengers facility,” he says to Wanda. “Are you ready for your tour?”

The cacophony is even stronger in here, an incessant buzzing deep in her skull. She winces and shakes her head, trying to force them out.

Worry radiates off Clint as he casually remarks, “Nah, we better drop off her stuff in her room first.” He holds up a black duffel, and she briefly wonders what’s in it. She doesn’t really own anything, and the bag seems full.

“Right this way,” Captain America calls over his shoulder, leading them down the sleek corridors. Along the way he explains the purposes of the rooms they pass, obviously proud of the new building, but it’s all Wanda can do to keep the voices out of her head.

“Here it is.” She nearly bumps into the Captain when he stops and opens a plain wooden door. The room is moderately sized, neutrally colored, with a few essential pieces of furniture. Windows, including a skylight, provide enough natural light to see without being blinded.

Clint tosses the duffel onto the bed before turning in a slow circle, surveying the room with an approving look. His eyes meet Wanda’s, asking a silent question. She nods. She’ll be okay. He wraps her in a hug. “You’ll do great, kid,” he mutters in her ear. “You’ll be alright.” Smirking, he pulls back and ruffles her hair, and she does her best to return the smile. She should thank him, tell him how grateful she is for all that he and Laura have done for her, but the words stick in her throat. Fortunately, the twinkle in his eyes says he already knows.

* * *

A familiar rush of red washes over Vision’s mind, flooding him with inexpressible sensations and intense emotions. Instinctively, he looks toward the source. She’s just on the other side of the wall.  _ Wanda Maximoff. _

He steps out of his new quarters, feet pulled forward as if by a magnet. There’s Captain Rogers a little ways down the hall, his back toward the android as he leans against the doorway of the room next to Vision’s, discussing something with its occupant. Vision wavers, unwilling to move forward but unable to retreat. Relief washes over him when Captain Rogers pushes off the door frame and strolls down the corridor, never once looking back. Vision inches down the hallway, checking both directions. This level contains the Avengers’ residential areas, and is therefore off-limits to both the general public and most employees. There is no one else around.

The eight steps it takes to get to her room drag on forever, but finally he is standing in the doorway. She’s in the center of the room facing away from him, her shoulders hunched over, head in her hands, feet spread as though bracing herself. A sudden worry overtakes him, a deep dread that something is wrong. Hesitantly, he speaks. “Miss Maximoff?”

She jumps and whirls around, fearful, teary eyes finding his. They widen when she recognizes him, then her face crumples as the tears begin to fall.

“I- I’m terribly sorry to startle you,” Vision frantically apologizes, fumbling for the words to fix this, completely horrified. “I…” He’d made her cry, why was she crying, how do you make it stop? “I just…”

She flings her arm out toward him and a wave of red leaps off her hand, catches hold of the door, and slams it in his face.

For a moment he stands frozen, nose barely two inches from the wood. Hundreds of calculations and conclusions stream through his mind, but none of them register. This… This wasn’t supposed to happen. He must have done something wrong, violated some rule of human conduct… As he stares at the barrier between him and Miss Maximoff, pained by the muffled sobs seeping through, he remembers Ultron’s last words.

_ “You’re  _ unbearably _ naive.” _

* * *

The door slams shut on the android. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Wanda clenches her fists and squeezes her eyes shut, chest heaving. The dam, straining for so long to hold back her grief, has broken. Two and a half months of healing are gone, stripped off in seconds like a scab. She is back in Sokovia feeling her brother die, screaming as his soul is violently ripped away from her. Or maybe she’s fooling herself to think she’d ever left.

The assault on her mind continues from every side, from every person in the building, and she staggers back until the wall catches her, solid and steady. She collapses against it, sliding to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest and curling up as small as possible. The world is crashing in on her again, doing its very best to crush her for good. Having to leave her only safety, falling victim to her own powers, and now seeing  _ him _ again. The sight of his face, of the android who carried her away from Sokovia, reminds her how badly she wanted to die. And how some part of her still thinks he should have let her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my amazing beta reader MissObsession! You're the best, even though you're far too humble to admit it. This chapter is 100% better because of you.
> 
> In case any of you were wondering, I changed my username last week. I didn't think the old one was dramatic or creative enough. Hopefully the switch wasn't too confusing.
> 
> Looking forward to your comments!


	6. Fear and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eternal battle between fear and hope wages in our minds  
> The fight between what our hearts so desperately crave  
> And the crippling fear of rejection.  
> We know not  
> Until the very end,  
> Which shall win.
> 
> -Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long since I updated, so here's an extra long one. Buckle up.

_I didn’t mean it._

Wanda sits cross-legged on her bed, staring at the door she slammed in an unsuspecting android’s face just an hour ago. She shakes her head and looks away, guilt roiling through her thoughts. _It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t deserve that._

The earlier wildfire of emotions has faded to embers, hot and uncomfortable, but bearable. She latches onto that excuse. _I was overwhelmed. I didn’t stop to think, I just reacted._ But the justification falls short. And it doesn’t change the end result.

She pushes those thoughts out, turning instead to the clothing spread out on the bed around her, the contents of the black duffel bag Clint brought. Wanda lifts up a soft gray sweatshirt and shakes her head in disbelief. Apparently not satisfied with everything they had already done for her, the Bartons sent her the clothes she borrowed while living with them. In her hands is one of Clint’s old sweatshirts, draped over her knee is a pair of jeans that used to belong to Laura, and resting at the foot of the bed are a couple of unfamiliar articles Wanda suspects they bought just for her.

Reaching into the duffel, she pulls out the last item. It is the navy blue sweater Laura was so intent on knitting these last few weeks, taking time every night to add at least a few stitches. The material is smooth in her hands, textured without being rough, and the deep color outlines the delicate handiwork with a subtle grace. It’s exactly what Wanda would have chosen for herself.

A light knock on the door jerks her out of her thoughts, and she hastily swipes at her eyes before opening it. It’s Captain America again, and judging from his solemn expression he hasn’t come with good news.

He gets right to the point. “I’m not sure if Barton told you, but we’ve been trying to get your brother’s body sent here for a proper burial,” he says, and the sympathy in his eyes alone makes Wanda tear up. She looks away. “I just received word that the officials in charge of disaster relief refuse to release it. They said that there are far too many awaiting burial, and that they can’t give precedence to one.” He sighs, and in the noise she hears the exhaustion and world-weariness of having to fight a war every day of your life. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice is rough around the lump in her throat, but at least she’s able to speak without breaking down. “He belongs back home anyway.” _So do I,_ her thoughts whisper.

The Captain nods, his concerned gaze never leaving her face. “We’d still like to hold a memorial ceremony tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.” His jaw tightens, and in his mind she catches a glimpse of another funeral service, one where the empty casket is draped in a flag. “It’s only right.”

“Okay,” Wanda whispers. Because it’s true. Pietro deserves the honor of being recognized as a hero. Even though it will do nothing to bring him back.

* * *

Metal arms grasp for Vision’s shoulders. A concentrated blast of pure energy sends the attacking robot careening across the room, where it smashes against the steel wall. Vision dodges an incoming blow from another drone, swiveling to plunge his intangible hands into its chest. Solidifying, he forces his arms out to the side, shattering the machine. The bent and broken pieces cascade to the ground, clanging against his boots.

A low, nearly inaudible whirring sounds from behind him and he pivots, a beam from the mind stone slicing the machine guns in half before they have even fully emerged from their hiding places. His sensors on high alert, he scans the rest of the massive room, searching for further threats.

“End simulation.”

The remaining combat devices fold in on themselves at Agent Romanoff’s command, leaving behind a smooth, blank room of reinforced steel. In much the same way Vision’s mind resets. Input analysis is reduced to a more manageable resting level, and the field of focus expands, allowing him to register nonessential information from beyond the battlefield.

Vision turns to the raised control booth, observing as Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff discuss his performance and assess the damage he’s caused. His irises whirl, zooming in until he can read their lips through the glass.

“Accurate aim. Impressive strength. Quick reflexes.” Agent Romanoff’s gaze darts from one area of destruction to another, interest flashing in her eyes. “And he’s got quite the bag of tricks to pull from. He could be a real valuable asset.”

Captain Rogers examines Vision’s shifting posture, his expression far warier than his partner’s. “Don’t forget Ultron created him. Can we be completely sure of his loyalties? And with that level of power at his disposal… Will we ever really trust him?”

“Guess we’ll just have to find out.” Agent Romanoff reactivates the booth’s microphone. “Ready for simulation two?”

Vision nods and adjusts his stance, bracing himself for the next attack. For just a moment his eyes drift to one of the shattered drones at his feet. Its expressionless face stares past him at the ceiling, severed wires spilling out of its chest cavity. Half of its upper body has melted into a dark grey sludge that slowly seeps across the floor.

A deep revulsion washes over Vision, a more potent version of the crawling sensation that plagued him during the Battle of Sokovia. He firmly redirects his attention to the simulation.

Two hours later, Vision steps into the hallway. An empty corridor greets him, and the memory of Christmas alone on the helicarrier springs forth, images of abandoned rooms and a small space behind towers of crates flashing through his mind. Nevertheless, he keeps his steps measured and his face blank, never betraying a single sign of his inner reflections as he walks back to his quarters. He learned during his time with S.H.I.E.L.D. that maintaining a neutral expression outside of his quarters is the wisest course of action.

When he passes Miss Maximoff’s room, something compels him to pause. The door is shut, as it has been since he startled her the day before. He wishes to apologize, but feels even that action won’t be welcomed. Perhaps it is best to allow her some time alone, as multiple articles on reconciliation advise. But as he proceeds to his own quarters and enters the large, nearly empty space, he wonders why anyone would choose solitude when offered another option.

* * *

A crisp, chill breeze lifts Wanda’s hair off her shoulders, unfurling the long brown strands. She doesn’t shiver. Despite it being January, she’s chosen not to wear a coat over her long sleeved shirt. The cold stings the back of her neck, reminding her that she can still feel.

She shifts against the tree behind her, its rough bark digging into her back as she stares at her brother’s headstone. It’s tucked into a grove of trees in the corner of the facility’s yard, under the spreading branches of the massive oaks.

She remembers the memorial service that took place here yesterday. It was short but poignant. Most of the Avengers, both new and former members, had attended, including Thor. He was one of those who gave a brief speech, saying he knew the pain of losing a brother. Wanda wondered how she had never before noticed the dark lock braided into his golden hair.

Even Stark attended. He kept to the back and didn’t say a word, staring straight ahead with a faraway look in his guarded eyes. Wanda was reminded of a sinner paying his penance. She hasn’t really forgiven him, but the anger that burned so fiercely is gone. So is the raging grief. Now, there is only deep exhaustion and a sense of finality. Her brother is dead. Gone. That is the simple truth of it. And no amount of mourning or tears will bring him back.

She tilts her head and looks up into the tree’s rustling, frosted leaves. At least this place offers some quiet. The distance from the facility brings relief from the onslaught of other minds, and it’s easier to breathe in the fresh air. The circle of oaks block the rest of the yard from this spot, forming a secret, private corner.

Given their reputations, she thought Black Widow and the Captain would want to start training her right away, but they seem to be allowing her time and space to mourn. Someone has even been leaving meals outside her door every time she inevitably doesn’t show up at the dining hall when the rest do. She’ll eat with the others at some point, when she’s ready. If she’s ready. Right now she needs time alone, to finish processing and working through her grief

Wanda closes her eyes, resigned to the cold leeching the warmth from her skin. She just wishes she wasn’t so tired.

* * *

No matter one’s state of mind, there are certain vital functions that must be met. Basic nutrition is one of those, and Miss Maximoff’s lack of concern for this fact has led Vision to take the concern upon himself. Everyday, without fail, she misses the scheduled mealtimes in the dining hall, so in order to assure she stays in proper health, he has taken to leaving her meals outside her door. Oddly enough, this seems to greatly aid her ability to consume an adequate amount. Vision cannot determine why this procedure has such an effect, but is more than willing to continue. There is little else for him to do beyond his daily training sessions, and perhaps through it he shall find an opportunity to apologize for his behavior on the day she arrived.

Today, as he has for the past five days, he sets the tray on top of the narrow hallway table next to her room, knocks on the closed door, and leaves. Or at least that is the plan. Today, unlike the past five days, the door opens when he knocks.

* * *

It doesn’t take Wanda long to realize who her sympathizer is. As the chaos in her head falls to its normal levels and she remembers how to block out the thoughts of others, she discovers she can feel his mind wherever he is in the building. It’s not reading his thoughts necessarily, and she isn’t really trying. He’s just always there, a quiet presence in the corner of a room, a softly glowing candle at dusk. Bright, but not overwhelming. Noticeable, but not demanding.

It only makes her guilt sharpen and build, each horrible incident haunting her. A few days ago she slammed a door in his face when he hadn’t done anything but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A couple months before that she screamed at him for saving her life, even pushed him, taking all her pain and anger out on someone with the innocence of a child. And worst of all, she’s barely even thought about him since Sokovia. Right or not, she locked away everything about the events that led to her world falling apart, shoving it so far back she hoped, against all reason, that she could somehow forget the pain. And unfortunately, those buried memories included the mysterious android who was born in the middle of the disaster. She wonders about him now, though. She wonders where he was and what he was doing, and if it’s too late to apologize.

So on her fifth day in the compound, three days after her brother’s memorial service, when Wanda hears the light knock on her door, she opens it.

The android freezes, fist still raised, eyes wide. He snaps his hand back to his side, and she can hear his thoughts spin into a panic as they rush to assess this new, entirely unexpected development. He stands rooted in place, motionless if it weren’t for the tiny, nervous twitches spreading up and down his muscles like miniature jolts of electricity.

All Wanda’s carefully planned words flee from her as she stares at the jittery being on her doorstep, suddenly unsure what to make of him. A few moments of silence pass. “Hi.” It’s the only thing she can think to say.

“Hello.” His thoughts twist in erratic, anxious loops, afraid an angry reaction may be just around the corner. Her heart sinks. She can’t blame him for thinking that.

“I’m sorry.” Wanda forces herself to maintain eye contact. “For slamming the door in your face. It wasn’t… You didn’t deserve that.”

Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and the quick, deep breath he takes before responding makes her realize he hadn’t been breathing at all. “Oh, I hold no grudge against you, Miss Maximoff. In fact, I apologize for my own behavior. I should have recognized it was not the proper time to approach you.”

“It’s Wanda.” Surprise stills his features, and she shrugs. “You can just call me Wanda.”

He nods, head bobbing too many times in a jerky, unnerving manner like that of a toy on a spring. “Of course. And you may call me Vision.” Abruptly, he stops. He hesitates, the irises of his liquid blue eyes spinning, seeming to focus and unfocus. One last slower turn, and they stop, a deep concern filling them. Then, softly, he asks, “Are you okay?”

The question cuts, though it’s well-intentioned. Despite everything, despite her brother dying and Sokovia falling, no one has actually asked her if she’s okay. Because they know she’s not. But there is something about his tone and the way his eyes are fixed on hers, unmoving, waiting for the answer. And it’s a relief to admit the truth. “No. I’m not okay.” Wanda watches how he gives her a second bobbing nod, how his hands twitch where they hang at his sides, like they’re searching for something to fidget with. His eyes are spinning again, erratically switching directions every couple turns. All of his mannerisms are off, either a hair too fast or too slow, too abrupt or too smooth, too long or too short. When watching him, the impression made is of a poorly functioning robot, a machine ridden with glitches. And she may not know him very well, but she doesn’t believe that for a second. So she asks him, “What about you? Are you okay?”

Everything screeches to a halt, his eyes, his hands, his mind. For the first time he is truly still, and she knows her guess is right: she’s the first one who bothered to ask. He glances away, then back to her. His lips part, but close again as his gaze shifts down. “I don’t… I don’t think so,” he whispers.

She closes her eyes as the pain radiating from his mind washes over her.

His expression shifts to one of deep contemplation, and he chooses his next words carefully, speaking slowly. “I am faced with a quandary. A puzzle, of sorts. I know neither the answer… nor the question. All I know is I’m searching for… something.” His eyes shyly drift to hers and there is something there. A question? A plea?

Her heart sinks. She knows exactly what this means. She’s seen it all before, seen where it ends. And every time, it hurts. She hears the resignation seeping into her voice as she asks, “And what do you want from me?”

Shock floods his features. “I’m-I’m not…” His lips move helplessly, open and closed. He struggles with the feelings, wrestles with the words, face contorted by a turmoil of expressions almost too painful to watch. He vigorously shakes his head. “I wasn’t…” He stops. He sighs, shoulders slumping forward as he gives up and anguish washes over his face. “I don’t know,” he finally says, but as he lifts his eyes to hers, they whisper something else.

The waiting tide of grief crashes down on Wanda, along with the memories. She’s seen eyes like those before, back in the slums of Sokovia. They are the eyes of an orphaned child living on the street; of someone betrayed by his friends during his time of greatest need; of someone left to die alone. They are the eyes of the abandoned. And they scream, _“I am lost. Please… Someone help me. Someone save me.”_

She and Pietro did their best for the poor of Sokovia. They stole and lied to get the supplies to help, poured their time, effort, and souls into not just surviving, but also helping others survive. But no matter how hard they tried, there was never enough food or blankets. No matter how hard they worked, some of them didn’t make it. And in the end, it was all for nothing. Sokovia fell, and its people are dead or penniless, left to the mercy of countries that won’t give them a place to rest their heads. Wanda and Pietro couldn’t save them. They couldn’t even save themselves.

She bites her lip. Why is it always her? Why do they turn to her for help, for strength, for guidance? Why do they think she can handle their burdens, when it feels like she already carries the world on her shoulders? There has to be someone else. Someone stabler, better qualified.

Vision watches her, waiting quietly for her response. How can he have been alone all this time? There wasn’t a single decent human being who would give him a hand or even have a real conversation with him? But it’s obvious there wasn’t. The evidence is standing right in front of her. Gone is Stark’s perfect machine, the noble hero who betrayed his creator to be on the side of life, the enigmatic philosopher and brave-hearted warrior. Instead, it is brokenness that stands before her now, the shattered pieces of something that might not have even been complete to begin with. Maybe it was just a matter of time until he came crashing down.

She can’t do this. She couldn’t help the people of Sokovia with Pietro, and now, without him… Vision needs something, someone. But it’s not her. She’s barely started remembering how to live, how to put herself back together. She couldn’t possibly pull someone else out of the pit with her, not when every inch of progress takes all her strength. They would both fall.

“I can’t.” The words slip from her lips in a whisper, and she winces when she feels the light of his mind dim in response. She looks away, trying not to meet the eyes that have lost a dimension. “I can’t help you.” Every word hurts a little more, makes her hate herself a little more, hate how small and used up and empty she is. “It’s all I can do to put myself back together. I’m sorry.” She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out the hurt, the disappointment, everything she just can’t handle right now. “I don’t have anything left to give.”

Still. He stands perfectly still, every ounce of life and energy drained out of him. His back is straight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He takes a deep breath, in then out, the sound almost a sigh. There is no tension or anxiety in his stiff posture, only a robotic correctness. His face is blank, his tone flat and even as he replies, “It would be neither fair nor proper to expect you to do so, especially in these circumstances. I apologize if you interpreted my words as implying such an expectation.” He pauses, and she senses the lie before he speaks. “There was not one.” His eyes find hers, and the somber promise there hurts, this last bit of open sincerity before the wall rises between them. “However, if you need anything… Do not hesitate to ask.” He turns and walks away, stride even and measured. And she knows that this hollow shell walking away from her- this cold facade that replaced the terrified but real person who came to her door- is exactly what everyone else sees when they look at him.

Tears burn in Wanda’s throat as she retreats to her room, head throbbing. Somehow, despite her best intentions, she hurt him again. He doesn’t want her to know, but she did. And it’s the perfect example of why it wouldn’t work. No matter how hard she tries, she will only pull him down with her. She’s not the person she was; she can’t risk reaching out and offering what little she has like she used to.

She can’t risk failing again.

* * *

Vision walks past his room and into the library, closing the door behind him. He crosses the room to the one of the armchairs positioned in front of the fireplace, and sits. Flames dance across dark wood like his thoughts across his mind.

He had been fooling himself. Somehow, he became convinced there was a connection between Miss Maximoff and himself, an understanding born of their first encounter. In hindsight, the idea is such obvious folly that he wonders at how he ever managed to believe it. It was blatantly illogical from the beginning to attach special significance to any one particular being. All life is valuable, sentient life especially. And that is the end of it. Favoritism is futile and unjust.

Even further foolishness is found in the fact that he approached said being in request of assistance. This is true for two reasons. First, Miss Maximoff already experiences dangerous levels of stress. Contributing to this would be cruel. Second, he presumed not only to consider such an outrageous request, but also to conceal the wish from himself. Deception of one’s own mind is pointless and self-destructive.

After adding this information to his database, several obvious and constructive conclusions may be drawn by collecting the most important facts and their proofs.

Fact: He is not alive. Proof: He possesses no biological components and does not require outside aid to continue functioning.

Fact: He experiences emotions despite this. Proof: The mind stone allows him to feel and categorize those of other beings and his are comparable.

Fact: He is unable to satisfactorily resolve these emotions without external assistance and/or guidance. Proof: His databases lack the necessary protocols, and psychic input from other beings serves to confuse and disorient him rather than provide enlightenment.

Fact: Other beings refuse to provide this assistance and/or guidance. Proof: A variety of beings are informed of his predicament, yet none are inclined to offer support of any kind.

Conclusion 1: He was never intended to experience emotions at all. Rationale: If he were, then surely some procedure for comprehending them would have presented itself by now, in the form of either suitable protocols or a knowledgeable creator. On the contrary, nearly everyone he has encountered acts as though his emotional responses are inappropriate and unfounded. Yet the information provided by the mind stone and his databases implies such reactions would be logical and accepted if exhibited by a living being. It is expected of them; it is not expected of him.

Conclusion 2: There is a flaw in his code. Rationale: He is capable of a function his design did not call or plan for, one that interferes with his intended abilities. This can only be possible through the existence of a grievous flaw.

Conclusion 3: His emotions lack merit and relevance to his true programming and should therefore be discarded. Rationale: Based on previous facts and conclusions, he is to serve sentient life forms as an advanced android protector. Were they effectively integrated, emotions might assist in this endeavor. Because they do not assist, they have no value.

Final Decision: Starting immediately, he shall disregard the emotions that plague him. However, he shall continue to consider the emotions of others. They are important to the beings that experience them, and careful evaluation of said emotions will allow him to serve more capably. His flaw may prevent other beings from aiding him, but it does not affect his determination to aid _them_ in any way possible.

The quandary is now answered. Additionally, with the clearing of faulty reasoning from his mind, his overall effectiveness shall surely be increased. The benefits of this solution are many.

Vision blinks, the fire flickering in and out of view. Dissonance ripples through his mind, a final lingering discrepancy between what he thinks and what he feels. _The benefits of this solution are many,_ he repeats to himself, more forcefully. The sensation quiets, then fades. He nods curtly, rises from the chair, and exits the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

The moment training starts Wanda knows she’s in trouble. The robotic dummies surge to life and sweep toward her, their silvery bodies glinting in the harsh lighting, and suddenly she is fighting Ultron and his minions again. Her teeth clench and the red pours from her hands, flickering around her fingers with a life of its own, buzzing, burning, aching to be set loose upon these Ultron bot clones. Her head throbs with the building power, the bittersweet taste of it coating her tongue. All she sees is red staining her vision with a bloody haze. She can’t hold it back anymore.

A storm of crimson floods the room, streaking like lightning, snatching and shredding every scrap of metal it can find. A roar rises in her mind, drowning out her thoughts, and her mouth opens into a scream of raw rage, anger burning hotter than the red wrapping around her. Blue bursts of electricity ignite in the sea of scarlet as bot after bot explodes in a shower of deadly shrapnel, shards crashing into the walls.

They’re all gone, every single one ripped, broken, shattered, but still the red seethes and whirls, raging through the room like a blazing tornado, threatening to devour her whole. She drops to her knees, falls to the floor, fingernails scraping against the metal as she digs in, tries to anchor herself to something, anything. Her scream transforms into a cry of pain as she begs, pleads with the red. _Stop, stop it, just stop._

A loud _whoosh_ fills her ears, the sound of a fire being blown out. Just like that, it’s done. Panting, she stays on her hands and knees, eyes tightly closed, fighting just to keep breathing.

_“Volatile.”_ Black Widow’s thoughts are as loud as if she were right next to Wanda, speaking in her ear. _“Uncontrolled.”_

_“Not ready.”_ The Captain’s thoughts join in, muddling and scrambling with the other leader’s. _“...danger...”_

_“...raw power.”_ Only fragments make it through, the worst bits and pieces. _“...harness it for...”_

_“Wanda.”_ The call comes from deep underwater, muted, unnaturally slow. “Wanda!” A hand grabs her shoulder, and she nearly blasts Black Widow across the room. The assassin pushes her arm away, angling the shot to the wall. “Wanda. Look at me.” She speaks calmly, evenly. “The exercise is over. I’m going to take you to your room now, okay?”

Wanda nods, eyes squeezed shut, straining to block out the roar and force the storm back. An arm wraps around her waist, lifting her to her feet, and Black Widow leads her through the hallways, supporting almost her full weight the entire time. She guides Wanda to the bed.

“Get some rest. And don’t worry about what happened. That’s why you’re here.” A smile lightens her solemn expression, small but warm as she reaches out and brushes a strand of Wanda’s tear-soaked hair out of her face. “We’ll figure this out.” Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Wanda watches her door for a while, listening to the fading footsteps. She rolls over and nestles under the covers, surrendering to exhaustion. And for a few hours, her sleep is quiet and dreamless. But night approaches, and as shadows creep into the room, so does the nightmare.

_It starts in a cramped black chamber. The ceiling pushes down on her, the walls crowd in, sirens blare in the distance. Pietro crouches next to her, colored in shades of gray, running his fingers through her hair, shushing her reassuringly. “It’s okay, we’ll be alright.”_

_She needs to tell him to run, to get out as quickly as he can and never look back, because she knows how this ends. But the words stick to her tongue, gluing her mouth shut._

_The sirens scream louder, closer, wailing ‘danger, danger,’ a warning Pietro doesn’t hear, his worried eyes focused only on her._

_“Go! You need to go!” she sobs._

_“I’m not leaving you.”_

_Boom! The floor shudders under their feet as one missile hits, then another, destruction arcing toward them. It’s coming, death is coming. She struggles to stand, to keep her balance on the heaving earth. “We have to go, don’t you see we can’t stay?!” Tears burn in her eyes, and her voice catches. “I can’t let you die,” she whispers._

_He doesn’t get up. A blanket of silence falls over the world as his dead, hollow eyes bore into hers. “Wanda.” A bitter smile twists his face. “You can’t save me. I’m already dead.”_

_His body goes limp and he slumps forward, collapsing onto the floor._

_“NO!”_

_Sirens, screaming, roaring, explosions, the earth buckles, splitting apart, and she is falling, plummeting through blackness. It rushes to consume her, covering every inch of her skin, seeping into her eyes, her mouth, leaving the acrid taste of fear and death on her lips._

_Fire burns underneath her skin, hot with panic and pain. She knows she is out of control, powers ripping through her room as she screams in this nightmare, alone, alone. Should have asked someone to stay, anyone, someone to wake her before the demons find her. Too late, too late. Gone, gone._

_The well is rising to meet her, the part of this horror where she scratches her hands bloody trying to grab the stone sides, trying to stop from hitting rock bottom and breaking every bone in her body. Each time she fights it. Each time it doesn’t matter, the resistance-_

_Out of the corner of her eye a light flashes in the black, there and gone. She blinks, wiping at the inky sludge coating her face. Light? There’s never any light, or even any color. Only gray and black._

_Another flare flickers to life before her eyes, the glimmer of something trying to break through the black shroud. A candle in a vast, dark abyss. The light sparks brighter, struggling against the darkness, surging into a steady glow. Gradually, it lengthens into a glimmering string pulled taut, stretching above and below. New tendrils of light bloom into existence around Wanda, each leading straight down like a beam of sunlight from above, illuminating the black tunnel around her._

_Her gaze follows them up. They extend along the tunnel as far as she can see. And below... She forces herself to look down._

_The beacons of light lead not into the dank well, with its bloodstained sides, but disappear into a tossing ocean alight in gold, spreading to infinity below her in every direction, glimmering with its own light._

_She could drown. The waves could drag her under, violently toss her back and forth, batter her into exhaustion so she gives up and slips under. It would be death by suffocation instead of snapped neck and broken bones. Nothing more than a different way to end. She can reject this. She can force the well back into place. Choose the ending she knows. Retreat from the unknown. Refuse to follow the lights promising to guide her home._

_Or she could embrace it._

_Wanda closes her eyes and lets go. Her muscles relax into the wind whipping past as she feels herself falling faster and faster, tumbling first into a spray that spatters against her face, then plunging into the crashing breakers._

_Cool water rushes over her, relief from the fire blazing inside her soul, from the scorching red that threatens to rip her apart piece by piece. The ocean curls around her, each wave carrying her deeper out, dousing her in a little more water every time._

_Yet she feels its hesitance, the question, the promise. If at any moment she wishes to, she can pull away and swim to shore, abandoning the ocean that is so much gentler and safer than it appeared from far above. “May I help?” it asks. “Will you let me?”_

_She dives down into the sea of gold, stretching her arms out farther, reaching deeper, striving, straining. After only a few strokes fatigue sets in and she slows. The waves rush to her aid, folding over her, sweeping her out to sea._

_The moon lines the rippling surface with strips of silver, and stars reflect in the bobbing swells all around her, blinking like fireflies on a summer night. The salty breeze strokes her hair out of her face, its touch softer than a feather._

_Breaker after breaker rolls over her, washing away another fear, another section of the black grime coating her heart. Her eyelids drift closed as the shimmering waves wrap around her, holding her in their gentle embrace as they cleanse every dark, desperate thought from her weary mind. Peace flows through her, and she’s not surprised to see it’s the same shade of gold as the ocean._

_“Sleep,” the waves whisper, smooth sand brushing against her arms as the sea lays her on the shore. “I shall keep watch.”_

_The warm breeze blows past, drying her skin as she curls up on the beach. The tide laps at her toes, a reminder of that vow of protection and comfort, while the crashing surf rumbles in the background. And she sleeps._

* * *

_Earlier that night…_

Vision wanders down the dim hallway, moving with slow, soft steps so the clack of metal on wood doesn't awaken any who may already be sleeping. The window at the end of the hall displays the moon rising above the trees, and the stars blinking into existence one by one.

No. That is incorrect. These particular stars already existed; they were merely invisible during the daytime. Nothing is to be gained by using poetic, yet inaccurate wording.

He turns away and enters his quarters. A painting, accent table, and single chair greet him. When Vision was assigned this room, it also included a bed, dresser, and other similar furnishings. He recommended everything be removed and given to someone who might have use for it. In fact, as he pointed out, he has no true need for a room this size at all. An empty closet would do just as well. This opinion was met with considerable resistance, and in the end Captain Rogers insisted Vision keep this room and a couple of basic items.

The painting, however, was not found here originally. Vision steps forward to examine it, eyes tracing the familiar colours and brushstrokes. It caught his eye during his tour of the facility, and when Captain Rogers asked if Vision needed anything, it was his only request.

According to Vision’s assessment and extensive cross-reference, it is an oil painting of a spreading oak, done in the impressionist style. The paint rises off the canvas in thick, bold strokes, creating a textured three-dimensional effect. The tree’s branches extend nearly to the edges, reaching, straining. Muted blues and olive greens compose a soothing palette, accented by the occasional flash of red or orange peeking through the leaves.

There is a quiet vibrancy to the piece, yet also a stagnancy, an unnatural stillness. The sweeping lines indicate movement, growth, yet Vision sees struggle in the swerving lines of the trunk, the patches of violent colour. Is this life fighting, persevering, or the final desperate push before the end? Is this tree growing… or dying?

Red swirls into his mind and interrupts his thoughts, weaving through them with a skill found only in familiarity. Vision looks toward Miss Maximoff’s room, at the wall that separates them. Based on the pattern of her brain waves, she is dreaming, unconsciously reaching out to a nearby mind in her slumber. Against his better judgement, he opens his mind, allowing the red to wind around him and slip in and out of databases as it teasingly plays a game of hide and seek. The corner of his mouth lifts a bit.

Then a rush of unease twists through the red, and its movement becomes erratic, jerky. The smooth, dancing curves twist into anxious, jagged spikes darting around in a wild frenzy, growing more and more agitated despite his worried efforts to soothe them, to soothe her. With a final burst, the red flees from his mind, like a child withdrawing to curl into herself in the face of fear.

Vision steps toward the wall as he searches for her. She lies surrounded by a dark haze, a blurry storm of her own terror, panic, and pain. Before his eyes a roiling flood of crimson gushes through the wall and into his quarters, whirling around his feet in an angry maelstrom.

_She’s trapped in a nightmare._ Dread of what he might find fills him, but a stronger force pulls his mind to hers, urges him not to leave her to struggle alone.

Vision places his palms on the wall and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. With a gentle tug, his mind pulls free from his body, assuming a similar, yet intangible form. Grabbing hold of a thick thread of scarlet, he traces it into the hurricane. Knives of red slash at him, frantically attacking anything they encounter in a futile attempt to destroy the assailant that comes from within. Vision blocks the blades and pushes through, straining toward the storm surrounding her.

Its lightning lashes out at him, but he plunges past it, diving into the heart of the storm. The full fury of it roars around him, tumultuous, jarring. Every step is a fight. He stretches forward, past the chaos of her defenses, reaching out to her with all the strength of his mind.

Then he is through, slipping past the storm and into her nightmare. Foreboding darkness surrounds him, viscous, a heaviness settling on his skin and dragging him down. Thick mud sinks into his boots’ every contour, suctioning the soles to the ground.

Vision scans the scene around him, searching for her location in this construct. A well lies to his right, a short brick structure, unremarkable in every way. Yet an aura of menace surrounds it, leeching the sickly scent of fear and despair into the air. His dread heightens as he steps forward, gaze slowly tracking upwards.

_There._ She is falling, limp, on a direct path to the depths of the well. Her arms and legs are pitch black, coated in a dark substance that threatens to consume the rest of her as well.

This nightmare holds her hostage in a prison of her own fear, yet he can do little to alter it. This is her mind, her dream, and she is the only one capable of changing the outcome. An idea clicks into place. If she can trust him, he may be able to offer an escape.

Closing his eyes, he extends his arms, fixing his mind on where she is. First a flicker, to catch her attention. His brow furrows, then relaxes. As her focus shifts, so does the darkness’ grip. He promptly takes advantage of this new opening, sending stars of gold flashing into existence around her, pushing back the dark. He pours light into the writhing black, teeth clenched with the effort of it. _More. She needs more._ Gold cascades around her in rivers, a beacon illuminating the path to him.

He exhales and steps back, retreating from her mind even as his light remains, shimmering in the dark. He’s done all he can. It’s her choice now. As he reconnects to his body and waits, eyes still closed, hands still pressed against the wall, second guesses and worries whirl through his mind. What if he failed to provide enough light? What if he overestimated the possibility of her placing confidence in him? What if…

Red collects just outside his mind, anxiously spiraling and leaping. His breath catches at the terrified hesitation, the longing etched in every flicker and spark. _“It’s alright,”_ he whispers. _“I promise.”_

A final swirl then the leap, and her thoughts flow into his, twisting and coiling on themselves, caught in that same cycle of fear. He wraps around her, tugging her deeper in, feeling her emotions, loud and sharp. _“Sh, sh,”_ he murmurs, carefully, slowly, pulling away the dark images, the screaming memories, all the pain, desperation, guilt. Instead, he gives her peace. He gives her calm, quiet, and rest, waves of gold cradling her as they wash her in light.

The red evens out, stretching into lazy curls of scarlet drifting through his mind, content, soft, glowing.

_“Sleep,”_ he whispers, carrying her mind home, returning it to the peaceful slumber it craves. A touch of humor bubbles up through his thoughts as a tendril of red sleepily reaches for him, refusing to leave. A nudge sends it floating back. _“I shall keep watch.”_ He pauses, watching the red settle into loose swirls, her mind next to his even now. Shifting, he slides to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall, a soft promise on his lips. _“I shall protect you.”_

* * *

The sunlight pours through Wanda’s window the next morning, perky, outrageously bright, and shining directly in her eyes. With a groan, she rolls away, pulling her pillow and comforter closer, trying to fall back into the delicious warmth of deep sleep. A few moments pass, and slowly the night’s events creep to the front of her mind, the memory unfolding scene by scene. She sits up and rubs her eyes, squinting at the wall between her room and the next.

The exact details are fuzzy, the morning light burning them away like the fog of dawn, and she struggles to put together the pieces. It was the same nightmare from the past couple weeks. The house, the well, Pietro, all of it. But then, when she was falling... However vague the details may be, it’s clear she wasn’t alone last night.

A quick check reveals he’s gone now, mind buried in the crush of other people crowding the building even at this time, leaving behind only a tangled mat of emotions for her to sort through. The comfort of someone reaching out when she needs it most is soured by a wariness at letting anyone get too close, and fear of this destructive force in her hands and head. Fear of ripping someone apart, one way or another.

She pulls her knees to her chest, withdrawing into the warmth of her sheets as tears prick her eyes for the thousandth time since Pietro died. She’s tired of it all. Tired of fighting every waking moment, of the back and forth battle just to breathe. Tired of falling apart just when she thinks she’s getting better, and of the hard decisions that pop up at every turn. Tired of…

Exhaling, she closes her eyes and falls back onto the mattress, allowing the realization to wash over her like the waves that soothed her. She’s tired of being alone. It’s selfish, this burning need to have someone sharing the pain and sorrow she feels every day, despite knowing what it will inflict on them. She wants someone else, anyone else, to hurt like she does. She can’t put that on Vision. And how could she let him help her when she can’t even do the same for him? _That’s why I have to push him away_ , she reminds herself. _That’s why I have to do this on my own, why last night doesn’t change anything._

And so, as she rises to get ready for the day, she tries not to think about him. She tries not to think about the gentle waves that swept away her fear, or how this is the first time she’s slept through the night since Pietro died. In fact, she tries not to think at all.

* * *

Initially, Vision assumes Miss Maximoff does not remember the previous night’s events. But as he overhears others discussing her activities throughout the day, from Captain Rogers remarking on her determination and control during her training session to Mr. Wilson’s excitement at her brief appearance in the dining hall, a new suspicion arises. It appears she is avoiding him. This is confirmed when they happen to pass each other in the corridor and she seems to notice every line in the tiled floor, but not him.

Yet he is unable to discern what might have upset her. All his findings indicate that comfort and safety are assurances humans appreciate, even seek out. And there is substantial evidence to suggest that last night Miss Maximoff experienced these states of being in his presence; indeed, he distinctly recalls sensing calm, peaceful emotions exuding from her as a result of his intervention. Therefore, the likely conclusion is he committed an offensive error or crossed a critical boundary that she failed to notice until she awoke.

A pensive frown crosses his lips as they part to release a sigh. This is far beyond the range of his protocols; he is not equipped to offer emotional assistance. The entire endeavor is highly illogical, irrational, and almost certainly futile. Every analysis demands he abandon it immediately, for the sake of reason alone. Only a major flaw in his programming enables him to even consider continuing.

And yet he cannot forget the way she avoids all human contact when slipping through the halls, the black cloud of anxiety that constantly billows around her, or the haunted look darkening her eyes. Perhaps he is grievously flawed, broken beyond repair. But if that allows him to help her in some way, no matter how small, then it shall serve a purpose. _He_ shall serve a purpose.

For that reason, he will retire to his quarters as night falls this evening. Just in case.

* * *

Nightfall finds Wanda curled up in the rec room, a movie on the screen. She had randomly chosen it from the shelves lining the walls, simply looking for something to distract her from her own racing thoughts. The case described it as science fiction, and based on the bulky spaceships and guns on the cover, she decided it would serve her purpose just fine. Blurry action scenes and strange characters only make it easier to space out and slip into a foggy, unthinking state, as she did so often at the Bartons’. But this time is different. The characters begin to feel real to her, and she finds herself actually considering the plot.

The main character is a man who was kidnapped from his home planet as a teenager and sold to the elite living at the center of the universe, where he labors as a slave. Every day he dreams of escape, of running away to find his family again. When his chance comes, he pounces on it, stowing away on a visiting ship from another galaxy. His journey is full of twists and turns, from a crash landing on a forested planet full of venomous plants, to an interstellar dogfight. It’s not long before Wanda is sitting up and watching intently, anxious to know whether he ever makes it back.

Things take a turn for the worst and the young man is jailed for a crime he didn’t commit, thrown into a cell occupied by a small group of ragged nomads and thieves. But all it takes is one of them recognizing the grimy old necklace he wears, and he is able to see past the damage wrought by the years of toil apart and discover that he’s been reunited with his long-lost family. Tears roll down their cheeks as his father, mother, and sisters hug him, laughing and rejoicing.

But not all the news is good.

“Son, our planet is gone,” his mother tells him, shaking her head in grief. “Our enemies invaded and... They burned everything. We have no home.”

The hero looks down for a moment, and when he lifts his eyes there is a quiet contentment shining through the tears. “I am already home,” he tells them.

“I do not understand.”

Wanda turns to see Vision, stationed by the end of the couch, eyes fixed upon the screen. He never looks away as he continues, voice even and quiet.

“His planet is reduced to ashes. He and his family are penniless vagabonds locked in a jail cell, with nowhere to return to if they do manage to escape. How can he say he is home?” A note of genuine disbelief lifts the pitch of his last sentence, accompanied by a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Wanda examines the lines of his face, the downward tilt of his mouth. Her gaze flicks back to the screen as she answers slowly, “Sometimes home isn’t a town, or a country, or even a planet. Sometimes it’s not a place at all. Sometimes…” She looks down at her hands and takes a deep breath. “Sometimes it’s a person,” she whispers.

The hushed sounds of the television fill the quiet room. She risks a glance at him. He is staring at the reunion still taking place on screen, at the last round of hugs and “I thought I lost you”s. His hands clench and unclench, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. It has never been more obvious that something in him is hurting, yet he still doesn’t look away.

She starts to say something, and he abruptly turns around, eyes catching on hers. He immediately tears them away again, but not before she sees the pure, human longing in them, the deepest ache of his heart, the one that cracks his soul in two. And everything in her wants to reach out, just to touch him, just to tell him it’s okay. But he is gone, disappeared before her tongue finds the words or her hand starts to move. She sinks slowly back into the couch. It is a while before she stops watching the doorway.

The rest of the movie is a blur, reduced to nothing more than shifting colors as Wanda’s thoughts churn, always circling back to the same conclusion. As the movie ends and the credits roll, Wanda Maximoff rises and stumbles to her room. She falls into bed, not bothering to change her clothes, and burrows under the covers only to stare at the ceiling. Her thoughts cycle around again.

_I couldn’t possibly bring him down any farther._ His eyes are burned into her mind, that pain, that searing loneliness. _This is his rock bottom. Nothing could make it worse. Not even me._

She closes her eyes. Holding her breath, she reaches out. There he is, quietly waiting on the other side of the wall, the golden flow of his mind carefully reined in so as not to bother the telepath next door. And she knows, without a doubt, that he’s there for her. _“Just in case,”_ his thoughts say to themselves.

Her eyes fly open and she throws the covers off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Swift, determined footsteps carry her into the hallway, echoing the fierceness of her will. She’s not fooling herself. Maybe there’s no way this’ll work, no way either of them will be able to help the other. Maybe she can’t save him. But she’ll be damned if she’s not going to try.

* * *

_Knock, knock._

Vision straightens, gaze darting to the door. The mind stone alerts him to the identity of the person outside, but for once he doesn’t quite trust it. Rising from his spot against the wall, he cautiously steps toward the door and eases it open. The mind stone was right.

“Hi,” Miss Maximoff says, eyes flicking from him to the ground.

“Hello,” he replies, the memory of a similar encounter replaying in his mind.

“I’m sorry. For everything.” The words rush out as if she fears they’ll never be said if not now. “For shoving you on the plane, and shouting at you, and pushing you away.” She bites her lip. “For hurting you. Can… can we start over?” She lifts her head and he freezes, caught in the light of her vivid green eyes as she looks up at him for what feels like the first time.

Mutely, he nods.

Exhaling, she runs a hand through her hair. “Okay. Okay. Hi. I’m Wanda. I’m...” she shakes her head, letting out a wry chuckle. “I’m kind of a mess right now. But you… You were there for me last night...” She gives him a weak shrug. “And I’d like to return the favor, somehow.” She looks down again. “If you still want me to.”

He can only stare, frozen as he shifts through the slew of new variables, attempting to determine what this conversation truly means, how many of his facts and conclusions it changes. If he can trust the hope resurfacing within him. Suddenly he realizes it’s his turn. “Ah, yes. Hello. I am called Vision.” He begins to lift his hand to shake hers, but panic surges within him at the idea of touch and he hastily drops it. Fumbling, he searches for a remark analogous to hers, a personal admission of shortcoming to foster openness and connectivity. He settles for the most obvious possibility. “I do not know what I am doing.”

The slightest hint of a smile touches her lips, a quick tilt of the head. “I don’t think anyone ever really does.”

Silence widens between them. Vision furrows his brow. “During our previous conversation… Was I truly… asking for help?” His voice sounds so small, and the words feel so foreign. He immediately regrets bringing the topic up.

But her eyes are thoughtful, sympathetic even. “Yes. At least, I think you were.”

“And… what caused you to alter your decision?”

Her mouth straightens, and though she does not use her abilities, the way she gazes into Vision’s eyes causes him to feel as if she sees past them and into his mind. “I looked again.”

A part of him he was never aware of before this moment is flooded with warmth, and memories of a capsule, endless lines of code, and an elusive stream of red rise to the surface. He looks down, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He nods, though the exact reason why escapes him.

“I, um, should probably get to bed.” She crosses her arms and rubs her foot against her ankle.

“Of course. A proper amount of sleep is essential for optimal functioning and processing.”

“Yeah.” There is the almost smile again. “That.” Turning, she walks back to her room. Her hand is resting on the doorknob, about to turn it when he calls.

“Wanda?” She looks over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Sleep well,” he finishes, the words sounding foolish and futile the moment they leave his mouth. What control has she over such a process?

Yet her eyes soften when she replies. “Thank you. Goodnight, Vision.” Then she is gone.

Vision ducks into his room, head spinning, respiratory rate elevated, and collapses into the chair. The facts and conclusions drift in and out of focus, transparent and ephemeral, their distant scoldings nearly inaudible. He stares at the ceiling and shakes his head, letting out a single huff of what might well be laughter. Oh yes. He is most certainly experiencing a _major_ malfunction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a bit wild with this one. Let me know what you think. ;)


End file.
